


To my naked core

by Jinxgirl



Series: Anything but love series [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-06-26 09:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 45,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15660192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinxgirl/pseuds/Jinxgirl
Summary: In the aftermath of their abduction, Puck and Santana struggle to create a life together and to overcome their mutual trauma. Ficlets. Sequel to Anything but Love. Rated M for sexual content, depression, mentions of rape, sex trafficking.





	1. Living arrangements

**Author's Note:**

> Prologue
> 
> "S.O.S. (Anything But Love)"  
> (feat. Cristina Scabbia & Mats Leven)
> 
> Bound to your side, I'm trapped in silence  
> Just a possession  
> Is it sex or only violence  
> That feeds your obsession
> 
> You send me to a broken state  
> Where I can take the pain just long enough  
> Then I am numb  
> Then I just disappear
> 
> So go on, infect me  
> Go on and scare me to death  
> Tell me I asked for it  
> Tell me I'll never forget  
> You could give me anything but love  
> Anything but love
> 
> Does it feel good to deny  
> Hurt me with nothing  
> Some sort of sick satisfaction  
> You get from my fucking
> 
> Oh stripped down to my naked core  
> The darkest corners of my mind are yours  
> That's where you live  
> That's where you breathe
> 
> So go on, infect me  
> Go on and scare me to death  
> Dare me to leave you  
> Tell me I'd never forget  
> You could give me anything but love  
> Anything but love
> 
> Without any faith  
> Without any light  
> Condemn me to live  
> Condemn me to lie  
> Inside I am dead
> 
> So go on, infect me  
> Go on and scare me to death  
> I'll be the victim  
> You'll be the voice in my head  
> You could give me anything but love  
> Anything but love  
> Anything but love  
> Anything but love  
> Anything but love  
> Anything but love
> 
> Author notes: I do not own any characters nor the song lyrics which inspired titles of both fics.

Living arrangements

It didn't take long for Puck to determine, after coming to New York City, that this would be where he would stay.

He had enjoyed the city well enough, when he had traveled there for the week with Glee club in eleventh grade to compete in Nationals. But even as he had made it his business to live it up in the city the best he could, given the minimal supervision their chaperones had provided them with, Puck had known that his time there was something of a fluke, limited and likely not to be repeated. He was no Rachel Berry or Kurt Hummel, or even a Santana Lopez. His dream had nothing to do with fortune and fame, with world wide admiration and acknowledgement of the talent Puck himself barely believed some days existed within him. Puck was a simple guy with a simple goal in life, and New York City was not the place to get it done.

Sure, he had had his Hollywood phase, where he had really thought it possible he could get some hot actress tail and write a screenplay that would throw him head first into that lifestyle, straight out of school. He had hoped more than he had really believed, trying to believe that his desire and his efforts would end with success. But Puck should have known better. When had his wants and his trying ever ended up with anything less than a disaster, let alone put whatever it was he was seeking directly in his hands? He was a Puckerman man, not infrequently known by at least Santana as a Fuckerman, and fucking up was what he had always done best. New York City his home? He'd end up homeless if he tried.

But New York City was Santana's home, and one thing Puck had come to learn for himself was that if he had no place to call his home, he did have a person, and that was Santana herself.

He had never gone back to Lima, after coming to their loft's door. He had packed enough of his personal items that he didn't feel a need to, and his mother and his sister were not exactly going to beg him to return to his childhood bedroom, once he told them the new plan. There was nothing he was leaving behind that really mattered, and the items he had forgotten could be bought just as easily in New York City as Lima, Ohio. His new direction was definitely different than any Puck had ever before envisioned or expected, but maybe it was the best thing he could have possibly chosen to do with his life- or a disastrous leap of faith. It remained to be seen, either way, and all Puck knew was there was nothing else that had ever felt so natural and right.

For the first couple of weeks, there was considerable awkwardness between everyone in the New York City loft, as they tried to determine where it was in the future that everyone would be residing. Puck had to stay with them during that course of time; he could have afforded no other apartment or even hotel room for very long, in such short notice, and he would have wanted to be nowhere else. The loft was Santana's home, and it was Santana he had come to stay with, Santana he had come to see. If he had had to, Puck would have slept curled up into a cramped ball in the bathtub, if it would have made Santana feel even slightly more at ease.

They hadn't had to resort to that. Although Santana's bedroom area was nothing more than a very small curtained off section of the apartment, her bed was a double, just big enough to fit them both. Puck had few belongings even had he taken everything he owned out of his mother's home, and there was little he had left that he cared enough about at this point to bother to do so.

It wasn't the sleeping arrangements that were an issue, at least, not if it was expected for everyone to simply rest at night, without any other nocturnal activities, innocent or otherwise, occurring. It was the space during the day, the lack of boundaries that would inevitably occur with two young men and two young women all sharing a very cramped living space at one time. It was the lack of privacy, the lack of personal space, that became an obstacle.

There was always someone in the shower, on the toilet, or using the sink in their bathroom, sometimes two or three people occupying its very small space at once as the four of them fought for time and means to do so every morning. With Rachel, Kurt, and Santana often sharing the same shift at the diner, and Puck's job as a grocery stocker at the grocery store around the block often being in similar scheduling, and Rachel and Kurt having school as well, they all often had to be somewhere at the same time on the same day and figure out a way to work around each other. Any efforts at privacy or modesty had disappeared quickly enough with these very real difficulties in scheduling, so they became skilled at averting eyes, loudly humming over the sound of someone's urinating, or blocking out someone else's actions by sheer will.

Except for in the case of Santana. It was made very clear to Puck that very fast, first by Kurt and Rachel's immediate informing him, and then by observing her himself, that she could not tolerate someone else being in the bathroom with her at the same time to do anything except for the both of them brushing their teeth. She could not handle someone being in a state of undress near her in a closed in space, and she certainly couldn't handle being undressed herself with them so close.

Puck would have known this for himself, had he thought about it. Though he tried not to remember or think about their days in the basement, he knew all too well how Santana had reacted, each time she was forced to be even partly undressed in front of even him alone, let alone the computer cameras and their captors. She had been frightened, ashamed, grieved, and that wasn't something that easily left a person, even if the danger of harm was no longer present.

He knew, but he didn't make the connection, or perhaps simply didn't realize how deep this went for her until he himself became a part of their morning preparation routine. The first day he had awakened for work and padded sleepily towards the closed bathroom door, rubbing his eyes with one fist, and reached out, yawning, for the doorknob, Kurt had flown over to him with a near panicked look stretched over his features, shoving his hand aside.

"You always knock, Puck, always!"

Puck had stared at him, yawning against his fist for the second time as he squinted at him, genuinely puzzled by his declaration.

"Hell you talking about, Hummel…you and Rach barge in on each other all the time and no one's died of naked

exposure yet."

"Yes, but Santana's in there now," Kurt informed him in a loud stage whisper, as though this explained everything.

Still groggy, slow to make connections, this explained very little to Puck. As he continued to blink at him, nonplussed, Rachel, who had been intently observing from the kitchen area, came closer, nodding quickly as she too joined Kurt in the overly loud efforts at keeping her voice soft.

"Yes, yes, Santana is in there and that means that you never, ever go in without knocking. And even with knocking use extreme caution. Actually you should most likely announce your presence from a distance away before approaching the door, and even then…no, actually, if the door is closed and you know that Kurt and I are not behind it, then you should likely simply wait until she chooses to emerge before you will approach."

At this, Puck's eyebrows lifted, and he made a scoffing noise in his throat, shaking his head at her.

"Maybe you two can't handle her morning growling, but I ain't got a problem ignoring it or giving back what she gives out. What do you think she's gonna do, attack you for knocking on a door?"

"Yes," the two of them said simultaneously and without a moment's pause, and Kurt elaborated meaningfully, his eyes wide.

"She'll throw stuff, scream, and on one occasion attempted to move all objects she possibly could to barricade your entrance. And if you forgot to lock the door and just come in when she wasn't prepared, god save you from her nails."

"Well, to be fair, Kurt, sometimes she would just…well, she would just curl in on herself and cry," Rachel bit her lip, seeming bothered by the thought and memory of this as she shook her head. "Just, I wouldn't do it, Puck, you know how I value punctuality and still I would much rather be late by a few minutes than so startle Santana while she is in the restroom."

Puck had not disbelieved them, exactly, but neither had he taken them very seriously. He knew that Santana was easily startled and frightened, now, he knew that her anger sometimes spilled over for what seemed to the person on its receiving end something very minor for her to be having such a strong response to. He knew she wasn't comfortable with people, even people they knew very well and who were clearly no threat to her, like Rachel and Kurt, seeing her undressed or in a vulnerable position. But he also knew that Rachel and Kurt weren't always the best with figuring out how to smooth over an awkward situation, that neither was great at knowing what to do or say or how to handle Santana when she was upset, let alone how to comfort her, like he generally could, so their words of warning were not ones he considered with much worry.

Two days later, Puck too learned the hard way. Still half asleep, he shuffled towards the closed bathroom door, trying to turn the doorknob to let himself in. The shrill screams that pierced his eardrums quickly informed him of that mistake- and he hadn't even jarred open the door's weak and easily jimmied lock with his efforts.

"Hey, Santana, it's okay!" he yelled back over her screaming, completely jolted out of his previous sleepiness. "It's just me, it's Puck! I'm not coming in, I promise. Do you hear me, it's just Puck and I'm not coming in!"

Santana's screaming cut off, but Puck was still bothered by the intensity of her response. She hadn't yelled anything back to him, hadn't started cursing from embarrassment or anger or started to blame him for startling or scaring her or even "trying to be a perve", or any other variation of covering her own reaction he could have thought of. Standing back by the door, aware of Kurt's and Rachel's sympathetic yet meaningful expressions behind him, he tried to figure out what he should do, whether he should try to talk to her again, or wait until she came out of the bathroom on her own. He didn't want to invade her privacy or scare her again, but the silence in the bathroom now seemed to him ominous, wrong in some way he couldn't identify, but nevertheless felt.

He lingered near the bathroom door, unsure of how to proceed with his feeling, but nevertheless not wanting to walk away if something were wrong. After a minute or two he knocked on the bathroom door, gently, only two short knocks, and called out to her.

"Santana? It's Puck again. I'm just making sure you're okay."

There was no response from Santana. He could hear the shower running, but Santana didn't call back to him. She was completely silent, and that was what bothered him the most.

"Santana?"

Nothing. Continued silence. Puck could feel the back of his neck began to prickle uncomfortably with growing unease, and he knocked on the door again, calling out a little louder.

"San, just let me know you're okay and I'm gonna leave you alone."

He heard Rachel coming up behind him, asking with some anxiety of her own, "Puck, what's wrong? Do you think something's-" but he waved his hand at her, shushing her. Rachel was still at his elbow, also looking towards the

bathroom door as Puck knocked one more time.

"Santana, I'm about to come in, okay? I'm just checking to see you're all right 'cause you're not answering. It's just me, it's Puck, but I'm gonna come in, so if you need to put on some clothes or something…"

He waited, but there was still no response from Santana. Exhaling slowly, dread now pressing hard against his lungs, Puck jimmied open the door and stepped inside the small space of the bathroom.

The first thing he noticed was the steam filling the room, completely fogging up the bathroom mirror and thickly spreading through the air to the point that Puck coughed, sweat gathering at his neck and brow. The shower was still running, Santana obviously inside it, but when he took an awkward step forward, again calling out to her, he heard for the first time a hitched gulping breath, as though Santana were struggling to breathe. Calling out to her one more time and receiving no response, Puck steeled himself, then drew the shower curtain aside.

Santana was huddled on the shower floor, as far away from the shower head as she could get, huddled with her knees drawn to her chest, her arms tightly wrapped around them in an embrace. She was shaking, her hair sodden down her back and partly covering her eyes, and although she wasn't' directly under the stream of water, she was still receiving enough of it that Puck could see how reddened her skin was. It looked as though she had scrubbed it raw, at least what he could see of her, and automatically he came forward, his hand shooting out to turn off the water. Santana's head did not come up from her knees as Puck called out to her again, trying to get her to hear him, to respond to something other than her own overwhelming fear. Squatting in front of her, the tub wall separating them, he called her name again, slowly reaching out one hand to touch her wrist.

"Santana. Santana, it's okay, I promise it's okay. Santana, you gotta breathe, babe, do you hear me? You gotta breathe right, come on, you gotta breathe."

This was something he recognized; he had seen it before, back in the basement, and he had seen it since, the night he had come to her from Lima, and a few times in between then and now. Kurt and Rachel referred to the behavior he was seeing as panic attacks, but if they had a name for it, they didn't seem to have a way of dealing with it to keep them from happening or to ease their length and intensity. It seemed that their own stress, in the face of Santana's, kept them from being very effective with their efforts at help, or perhaps Santana simply didn't trust and respond to them on the same level that she did Puck. Whatever the case, more often than not it fell to Puck to try to calm her when they occurred, and it was a task he would have wanted no other to have.

Slowly, still talking to her, trying to get her to look up at him and meet his eyes, he stroked the part of her arm he could reach, still talking with her. Gradually he stroked his fingers up her shoulder as well, then fingered his hands through her hair. It looked to Puck like she had been washing herself too roughly again, roughening her skin in her efforts to get and feel clean. She had described her reasoning behind it to him once, and although he understood what she was trying to do- hell, he had wanted to do the same himself, more than once, when he began to feel particularly infected by what he had done to her, what he had been made to do- it was nevertheless disconcerting to see her efforts to clean harming herself.

When Santana's head finally lifted, and she crept her hand forward, grasping for Puck's, he took it gladly, squeezing, and raised it to his lips to kiss its knuckles. A few more minutes of sitting with her, and she let him help her to her feet, wrap a bathrobe around her shoulders, and walk her to sit on her bed, curtain drawn around her area of the loft, until she could join the others again.

All of this Kurt and Rachel had at least been aware of as occurring, if not directly observing, and it wasn't a big surprise to Puck when the two of them decided to talk to him the next day, at a time when Santana was again showering in the bathroom.

"So we have been thinking, Noah," Rachel had started off, visibly nervous. She frequently looked back at Kurt for support when she spoke played with the chain of her necklace, clearing her throat several times before continuing. "Kurt and I have been talking, and we do believe, it seems as though it would be beneficial for all concerned, were we to consider revised living arrangements."

Puck had frowned at this proposal, unsure of what it was she was referring to.

"What do you mean, revised living arrangements? This place is about as big as a refrigerator box, we can't really move everything around much more than it already is. I mean, I sleep on the couch when San wants me to and I sleep with her in her bed when she's cool with it, I don't know how else we'd rearrange. I mean I guess you and her could share but you know how she kicks when she has those dreams, and no offense but I ain't sharing covers with you, Hummel. I mean, it might be less space to get bunk beds or something, maybe, but unless one of you wants to be right above us when she has those dreams and maybe get kicked in the ass from beneath-"

"No, no, that's not what she means," Kurt interrupted him hurriedly, shaking his head. "And no offense taken, by the way, I'm not exactly trying to move mountains to share a bed with you either."

"No, you have been most accommodating, Noah, and we appreciate your flexibility," Rachel assured him, but even Puck noticed that she was biting her lip, twisting her hands together with continued nerves as she spoke. "It's just that…I'm sure that you've noticed we're a little cramped for space here, and the privacy is basically nonexistent. We only have one bathroom and it's quite a challenge to have any uninterrupted time in it, and it's, well, difficult for anyone to have a good night's sleep when every noise anyone makes can clearly be heard through our rather sheer curtains…even at times if the person trying to get this sleep is wearing ear plugs and a face mask. I am sure you've noticed that mornings are a bit difficult as well, and well, with Santana's difficulties…"

"It's not that we don't understand, because we do," Kurt had hurried to take over the narration for her, when he noticed Puck's eyes began to narrow at the mention of Santana, his jaw tensing automatically at when he assumed to be forthcoming criticism or judgment. "We do understand, Puck, that she- that both of you- went through something terrible, and-"

"You don't understand," Puck said shortly, but with intent, curt emphasis on his words. "You don't understand, Hummel, and you're never gonna. You don't."

"Right…right, I'm sorry," Kurt's cheeks flushed, and his eyes shifted away for a few moments while he nodded, conceding this. "You're right, I don't. But what I'm…I guess what we're trying to say is, we do get that she's- some of the things she does now, it's because of what happened. Whatever did happen. So it's…well it's not okay, but we get why she's doing it-"

"It is okay," Puck cut him off again, his voice rising just slightly before he remembered Santana was awake and could turn the shower off and join them at any time, should she hear them talking about her. "It is okay, because she can't help it and it's what she has to do. If it makes her feel safe then it's fucking okay, period."

"Of course it is," Rachel took over for Kurt, giving him a look that was somehow both reproachful and meaningful at the same time. "Of course it is, Noah, we all want her to feel safe. But…what we are trying to say, is that although we of course recognize that Santana is, is coping, and we all want her to feel better, that it is…nevertheless at times difficult to live in such small quarters with her as she does so. We're not blaming her at all, it's the fact that we live in such a small space with so many people that makes it at times problematic."

"So you want us to move out," Puck summed up, crossing his arms over his chest and attempting to arrange his features into an expression that would reveal absolutely nothing of his thoughts. "That what you're saying, then?"

"No!" Kurt blurted, shaking his head quickly, but then, after another exchanged glance with Rachel, he took a breath in, rephrasing. "Well, not exactly, no. It's just that we thought maybe the two of you would be interested in looking into having your own place. If you wanted to."

"So, you want us to move out, but you don't officially want to say so," Puck summarized, his fingers beginning to dig into his inner arms as his hold of himself tightened. "That about it?"

"No," Rachel said, even more firmly than Kurt, shaking her head. "No, Noah, you know we love you and Santana. It's not that we don't want to live with either of you or don't want to have you stay here for as long as you want or need. It's just that…don't you think it would be easier, and that both you and Santana would probably be more comfortable?" She swallowed, glancing towards the door to the bathroom, where the sound of running water could still be heard, before going on in a slightly lower tone. "She trusts you so much more than either of us, anyone can see that. We're not asking you to leave, and if you don't want to we'll certainly keep working around the…difficulties…especially since you're both paying rent. But it's just…don't you think it's something to consider? Especially if the two of you are…together. You know. I would think when she feels a little safer you would want your privacy."

Puck had been considering what Rachel was saying, mentally weighing out possibilities, pros, and cons, as she spoke, acknowledging somewhat reluctantly to himself the truth of what she was describing. It was difficult to work around Santana's fears and the reality of four people in small quarters, all with busy schedules. It did feel strange sometimes to be sleeping on the couch, on one of Santana's bad nights, and hear other people tiptoing around him in the living room or kitchen, or worse, in her bed holding her while she shook and wept in the aftermath of a nightmare and know all the while that Kurt and Rachel were doing all they could to pretend they couldn't hear. It definitely wasn't an ideal situation.

But his considering shut down immediately when he heard Rachel refer to him and Santana as being "together." Any logical reasoning immediately left as he began to focus only on that one word and any implications or considerations of what she might have seen, what she might mean, and whether she was correct.

Sure, he slept in bed with Santana more nights than not- in the literal rather than sexual sense. Sure, he was the one she came to or reached out for when she was frightened or upset, and it seemed to be only him that she would calm down for when he spoke to her or pulled her into an embrace. It was true that she would touch him more often than she would Kurt or Rachel, and they kissed on a basis of once or twice a day, usually, with varying intensity and length. He knew that his thoughts always seemed to drift back to her, and it was only for Santana that he would have dropped everything to come to, moved into a crowded apartment in a city he had never overly cared for, just to be with her. He knew that he loved Santana, that he would die to protect her, and he knew even if she never said it that she loved him too.

So did all of this make them "together…" or would that not be official until they did, as Kurt and Rachel were suggesting, move out and into another setting on their own?

Puck would have thought, when he finally had the nerve to bring up the conversation to Santana nearly four days later, that she would be offended or amused, that she would either immediately refuse or else think it too fast, too much, too big of a step and too strong of a message to do so. But Santana had done none of this. She had simply tilted her head, considering, and shrugged, saying she'd think about it.

For the moment they left it at that, but it was an option and idea that was out there, neither seized nor dismissed, and Puck appreciated that fact.


	2. City

City

Within his first two days of being in New York City on a probably permanent basis, Puck was starting to remember some of the things he had preferred about Lima.

Sure, he had enjoyed being in the city the first time he went, with Glee club, and he had had good times returning since on the few occasions he had visited Kurt, Rachel, and Santana. But there was a difference between visiting a city, where others lead you around and directed you where to go, and trying to have a job and start a life there, and it wasn't long before Puck became disconcerted.

In Lima, he knew every neighborhood and every store, every street and the vast majority of people that inhabited them. He too was known by name, even if most of the people who recognized him would whisper behind his back or shake their heads darkly, predicting his sorry future in the footsteps of his father. It would be nearly impossible for Puck to get lost or end up somewhere he was unknown, even if he was so drunk he couldn't see straight. There was a sense of comfort in safety in this, as much as a sense of suffocation. In Lima, it was easy to believe that the worst in life that could happen was right within the privacy of your own family, that the pain people could inflict on you was no worse than neglect, dismissive words, or rejection.

In New York City, Puck didn't even know the others in the apartment building, let alone his entire block. He couldn't get anywhere without a map or directions from his roommates, and no one, absolutely no one knew him, either by name or by face- and what's more, nobody cared. For the first time, his presence did not invoke a reaction from anyone who saw him, because they barely saw him at all.

For the first time, Puck could not walk down the street of his own neighborhood with certainty that nothing bad would happen, that he would be left alone, or that if someone did approach him, he could easily fight his way out of it and come out having had the upper hand. Any time he could not take public transportation he was tensed, one hand on the knife he always kept now at hand, eyes darting frequently as he looked for any suspicious people approaching. Even on buses, subways, or cabs he remained on high alert, ever watchful that another passenger or perhaps even the driver might make a threatening move. He rarely walked alone, and he absolutely refused to let Kurt, Rachel, or especially Santana do so.

Not that Santana walking alone would have been a problem. Because despite Santana's insistence that she was fine, more days than not, and her dogged efforts to continue to try to live her life exactly as she had before their abduction, it was obvious within the first couple of days of Puck moving in with them that Santana too was viewing the city, or at least walking around it, in a much different light than she once had. She no longer jogged or ran for exercise around the blocks in the early morning, before the sun had even fully risen across the sky; she no longer went for long, meandering walks when she was sick of being in the small space of the apartment or when she was upset with one of its other inhabitants. She didn't decide on a whim to walk for coffee or a bagel or any other item that was close by, and whether or not she had the same shift at the diner as Rachel or Kurt, she insisted on them never, ever walking alone, anywhere, nor Puck either- and she herself, if someone would not walk with her wherever she had to be, absolutely refused to go at all.

This had caused difficulty on more than one occasion. It was easy enough for Kurt and Rachel to walk together to school, as they attended the same one, but Santana's workplace and Puck's were in opposite directions, and which made it basically impossible for one of them to not be walking alone at any point. If Puck left very early to walk Santana to work, he would then have to walk back alone for a fairly extended period of time, but Santana had expressed vehement refusal at this.

"Get a cab, hire a third person to walk with us and then walk with you, someone who won't knock you upside the head with a bat for the lint and gum in your pocket," she had insisted, absolutely meaning every word. "I don't care how you do it, Puck, but you're not walking all the way to work alone every day, EVER. I fucking mean it. I don't care how you have to make sure it won't happen but MAKE SURE IT WON'T HAPPEN."

It was difficult to arrange, given how little extra money Puck had and how much time it sometimes took to flag down a cab to take him to work in the mornings after dropping Santana off, or in the evenings, if her or his shift was then, to bring them together again. But he didn't complain, and he didn't entertain the idea of simply pretending to have done as Santana wanted while actually walking back on his own. For one thing, he himself felt safer doing so, and for another, he could see the genuine fear and concern in Santana's eyes and didn't want to cause her any more than was already there.

The first time he had walked with her to her work, he had seen for himself how difficult it was for her, even with him present. She had taken her time getting ready and out the door, and they had been bordering on late by the time she finally managed to get herself outside. Once her feet had hit the sidewalk she seemed to be struggling to put one foot in front of the other, her eyes focused ahead, but her shoulders were tensed up, her mouth set into a grim line, and her eyes were dark and shadowed. Although her arms were crossed defensively in front of her chest, Puck could see that her hands were shaking, and only he would ever truly understand why.

Sure, Kurt and Rachel could sympathize, could logically come to the conclusion that Santana's kidnapping, straight off the street, made her wary of walking in the same streets that she had been abducted from. But until they themselves had someone grab them while they were going about their normal routine, forcing them down to the ground, and stick a needle in their neck, they would never really be able to get it at all. Until an activity that had once given them no fear became a source of significant danger, they would never know how it was to simply try to go about their day, when everything now seemed a potential threat.

But Puck didn't voice this to Santana, nor did he consciously understand this in any straight forward way. Instead, he simply lay his hand on Santana's, overtop her arm, and when she looked over at him, her mouth still drawn into that thin line, he tried to smile at her, then entwined his fingers with hers, lightly squeezing. When Santana slowly uncrossed her arms, taking care all the while not to release his fingers, and began to walk with her hand in his, her shoulder lightly pressed into his arm, he had taken that to be an unspoken expression of gratitude. Puck said nothing, but the affection he felt for her then, the pride for the bravery she was showing, was so strong he wanted to point it out for everyone to see, to try to make anyone who passed them know and understand just how amazing she really was simply to be doing something everyone else did without a thought. But he said nothing, simply squeezing her hand again, and walked along.


	3. Nightmares

Nightmares

Puck never really slept deeply, without tossing and turning and listening for sounds, until some point past three in the morning. His experience had taught him, since moving in with Santana and her roommates, that if they reached the 3 am marker without disturbance, then Santana was going to be able to make it peacefully through the night, without her sleep being disrupted- or anyone else's. But until that point in time, whether he was curled up on the couch or in her bed with her, holding her in his arms, it was fair game to be awakened, and he almost expected it, more nights than not.

He never blamed Santana for his interrupted sleep or his uneven quality or length of rest; it was hardly her fault that just over five weeks after their release from the hospital, she was still having nightmares on a regular basis, so vividly that each time she woke up highly distraught. Whether she was screaming and begging in her sleep, still half in her dream, and needed to be awakened, or simply crying, upset and frightened, after having awakened, Santana needed someone to hear and be with her, needed someone to hold her and comfort her and soothe her back to being able to relax enough to try to resume sleep.

Puck preferred the nights that Santana let him sleep in her bed with her. Most often he could feel the tension in her body even before she started to make noise and knew that she was heading towards a nightmare, and he could sometimes soothe the nightmare away without waking her at all, simply by stroking her cheek or hair and whispering that she was all right into her ear. Even if he couldn't, or if he wasn't sleeping lightly enough to notice the change in her and to respond proactively, he was close enough that he could respond immediately to her cries when they were voiced, leaving little delay in between in which she was not being held and spoken to.

He never asked her what she was dreaming about, although she sometimes choked out details almost incoherently through heavy sobbing, as though she were trying to purge some of the details out of her thoughts through speaking them aloud. He never tried to kiss her on the lips or anywhere but the head, cheek, or forehead, not wanting her to mistake the gesture for an attack or a forced intimacy. He never pointed out to her that Rachel and Kurt could almost certainly hear her through their thin curtains, nor did he or any of the others speak the next morning about what had occurred the night before. Puck simply held her, every night that it occurred, and rocked her lightly, rubbing her back and caressing her hair, whispering words even he couldn't make much sense of in her ear, until he felt her breathing slow down and her body start to relax into his, her panicky grasp loosening to a hold almost equal to his of her.

The one time that Kurt had tentatively tried to bring up to them both the possibility of Santana being prescribed medication to help her sleep better, Puck had nearly bit his head off with his reply, and he hadn't allowed Santana to even consider the possibility either. Despite Kurt's and then Rachel's efforts at reasoning with him, arguing that they were safe, that they would help her to be more rested and therefore more healthy and well, he hadn't budged, and seeing how adamantly he felt about it, Santana had agreed with him. But later, when they had lay together in Puck's bed that evening, his arms loosely around her, her head resting against his shoulder, she had shifted her eyes up to look at him, asking with quiet confusion.

"Puck…why does it bother you so much, me maybe being on sleep meds? It's not like I'm the only person in the history of the world to consider them, and it's not like it's crack."

Puck had shrugged one shoulder, giving her his standard response when he didn't want to think or talk about a matter any further.

"Don't know. Just don't want you on them, it's lame."

But long after Santana had drifted off, her hand unconsciously splayed across his chest, Puck had lay awake, thinking it over, and he had come to several conclusions. For one thing, he and Santana had both been drugged several times during the course of the captivity- tranquilized first when they were initially abducted, then again through the Gatorade, in order for Puck to be carried upstairs to be talked with alone. The thought of someone giving Santana any drug, whether it was legal or not, that would make her drowsy when she wasn't naturally definitely raised his hackles. Then there was the possibility that Puck didn't want to fully acknowledge to himself, let alone to Santana. An overdose of sleeping pills, whether accidental or otherwise, could be harmful or even fatal…and what if Santana, in the grips of a panic attack while alone or having locked herself in the bathroom, managed to take too many?

But the last reason was selfish, one Puck sort of hated himself for even having, yet couldn't fully deny being reality. He didn't want Santana to take sleeping pills, because it would mean that his touch, his efforts at comfort, his presence nearby, was not enough for her to be able to sleep comfortably, that he alone was not enough to make her feel safe. And this would be a failure he couldn't quite stop himself from taking to heart.

He never told anyone about his own nightmares, although he suspected that Santana knew, or at the very least had an inkling that he too didn't rest peacefully through the night. He didn't describe to anyone how he could see Santana over and over, harmed in so many ways, and knew that every single one of them were reality. He didn't say, never let out or voiced how every night he lay down to sleep a mingled dread and anger pressed against his chest as he anticipated the long night's struggle. He didn't say, because it seemed pointless; what could anyone do for him, how could they banish the unreal or change what was done and over with?


	4. nightmares

Puck never really slept deeply, without tossing and turning and listening for sounds, until some point past three in the morning. His experience had taught him, since moving in with Santana and her roommates, that if they reached the 3 am marker without disturbance, then Santana was going to be able to make it peacefully through the night, without her sleep being disrupted- or anyone else's. But until that point in time, whether he was curled up on the couch or in her bed with her, holding her in his arms, it was fair game to be awakened, and he almost expected it, more nights than not.

He never blamed Santana for his interrupted sleep or his uneven quality or length of rest; it was hardly her fault that just over five weeks after their release from the hospital, she was still having nightmares on a regular basis, so vividly that each time she woke up highly distraught. Whether she was screaming and begging in her sleep, still half in her dream, and needed to be awakened, or simply crying, upset and frightened, after having awakened, Santana needed someone to hear and be with her, needed someone to hold her and comfort her and soothe her back to being able to relax enough to try to resume sleep.

Puck preferred the nights that Santana let him sleep in her bed with her. Most often he could feel the tension in her body even before she started to make noise and knew that she was heading towards a nightmare, and he could sometimes soothe the nightmare away without waking her at all, simply by stroking her cheek or hair and whispering that she was all right into her ear. Even if he couldn't, or if he wasn't sleeping lightly enough to notice the change in her and to respond proactively, he was close enough that he could respond immediately to her cries when they were voiced, leaving little delay in between in which she was not being held and spoken to.

He never asked her what she was dreaming about, although she sometimes choked out details almost incoherently through heavy sobbing, as though she were trying to purge some of the details out of her thoughts through speaking them aloud. He never tried to kiss her on the lips or anywhere but the head, cheek, or forehead, not wanting her to mistake the gesture for an attack or a forced intimacy. He never pointed out to her that Rachel and Kurt could almost certainly hear her through their thin curtains, nor did he or any of the others speak the next morning about what had occurred the night before. Puck simply held her, every night that it occurred, and rocked her lightly, rubbing her back and caressing her hair, whispering words even he couldn't make much sense of in her ear, until he felt her breathing slow down and her body start to relax into his, her panicky grasp loosening to a hold almost equal to his of her.

The one time that Kurt had tentatively tried to bring up to them both the possibility of Santana being prescribed medication to help her sleep better, Puck had nearly bit his head off with his reply, and he hadn't allowed Santana to even consider the possibility either. Despite Kurt's and then Rachel's efforts at reasoning with him, arguing that they were safe, that they would help her to be more rested and therefore more healthy and well, he hadn't budged, and seeing how adamantly he felt about it, Santana had agreed with him. But later, when they had lay together in Puck's bed that evening, his arms loosely around her, her head resting against his shoulder, she had shifted her eyes up to look at him, asking with quiet confusion.

"Puck…why does it bother you so much, me maybe being on sleep meds? It's not like I'm the only person in the history of the world to consider them, and it's not like it's crack."

Puck had shrugged one shoulder, giving her his standard response when he didn't want to think or talk about a matter any further.

"Don't know. Just don't want you on them, it's lame."

But long after Santana had drifted off, her hand unconsciously splayed across his chest, Puck had lay awake, thinking it over, and he had come to several conclusions. For one thing, he and Santana had both been drugged several times during the course of the captivity- tranquilized first when they were initially abducted, then again through the Gatorade, in order for Puck to be carried upstairs to be talked with alone. The thought of someone giving Santana any drug, whether it was legal or not, that would make her drowsy when she wasn't naturally definitely raised his hackles. Then there was the possibility that Puck didn't want to fully acknowledge to himself, let alone to Santana. An overdose of sleeping pills, whether accidental or otherwise, could be harmful or even fatal…and what if Santana, in the grips of a panic attack while alone or having locked herself in the bathroom, managed to take too many?

But the last reason was selfish, one Puck sort of hated himself for even having, yet couldn't fully deny being reality. He didn't want Santana to take sleeping pills, because it would mean that his touch, his efforts at comfort, his presence nearby, was not enough for her to be able to sleep comfortably, that he alone was not enough to make her feel safe. And this would be a failure he couldn't quite stop himself from taking to heart.

He never told anyone about his own nightmares, although he suspected that Santana knew, or at the very least had an inkling that he too didn't rest peacefully through the night. He didn't describe to anyone how he could see Santana over and over, harmed in so many ways, and knew that every single one of them were reality. He didn't say, never let out or voiced how every night he lay down to sleep a mingled dread and anger pressed against his chest as he anticipated the long night's struggle. He didn't say, because it seemed pointless; what could anyone do for him, how could they banish the unreal or change what was done and over with?


	5. Changes

Puck knew by the end of his first week in New York City that Santana had changed, but it took a while for him to see in how many different ways and to what impact it had on her daily life. She now refused, for instance, to use a laptop for any reason, getting antsy and irritable any time she saw Kurt, Rachel, or someone else doing so in her presence to the point of snapping at their every sentence. If she needed the internet, she used her smart phone or made someone else find or do for her what it was she wanted. Although she had once been an active poster on social media sites such as Tumblr, Facebook, Twitter, Vine, and Instagram, her posts had now come to an abrupt and total halt, to the point that she simply never logged in at all.

It made perfect sense to Puck; after all, their forced sexual activity had been put on a laptop live for anyone to see, and she probably at least unconsciously dreaded that one day there would be links to it on social media, or that she would see people talking about her or trying to ask her questions. He himself had never been one to spend much time on social media or computers, but his usage had definitely taken a sharp decline now as well. Kurt and Rachel didn't quite understand, though, and grew mystified every time Santana suddenly got increasingly bitchy while they were using a laptop.

"She just called me an insufferable, pansy-haired, squinty-faced Smurf Nerd wannabe who uses my fingers on the keyboard like a mallet in a smash the crocodile arcade game," Kurt had said with one part amusement, one part bewilderment, and one part outrage to Kurt as Santana had stalked out of the living room area to disappear behind her curtain, looking up at him as though he expected him to be able to provide an explanation. "I wasn't about to ask her, obviously, but is she on her period?"

She wasn't, but Puck didn't bother to update him.

Her distaste extended even more strongly towards cameras of any kind, be it camcorders, like had been used for them in the basement, or even regular cameras to take pictures with. And since they lived in New York City, where tourists often casually strolled about with both, this could be a real difficulty.

The first time a smiling Asian couple had come up to Santana with a camera extended, wanting her to take their picture as she had Puck had been on their way to work in the morning, Santana had startled Puck by letting out a shriek and jumping behind him as though he were her shield, beginning to curse them out in vehement Spanish, to their own blinking bemusement. And if she even thought that someone was about to take a picture of her, or in the direction of where she happened to be standing, the Spanish curses and efforts to block her face and turn her body away sometimes triggered a full on panic attack.

This from the former queen of selfies, the girl who had updated nearly every morning status with a new and often scantily clad photo of herself.

There were other changes too. Santana, who had always been fairly sociable, enjoying going out to bars, clubs, and other activities involving a crowd and attention likely attracted her way, now had difficulty even going to work or the grocery store, and could be found more weekends than not curled up on the couch, watching Disney movies- DISNEY MOVIES, another huge change- or using Rachel's elliptical, seeming to be attempting to move as fast and vigorously as she could, outrunning or perhaps simply exhausting whatever anxieties refused to leave her mind by literally sweating them out of her body. And yet despite her newfound desire to remain home, she also seemed quite displeased with being alone for any prolonged period of time. There were definitive areas designated as unable to be occupied by Santana and another person- the bathroom, for one, and her bedroom, when she was in a certain mood- but otherwise, she seemed to want someone, if not right up against her, at least within her sights most of the time.

"Where are you losers?" was a frequent refrain, any time that the loft seemed too still or too quiet for her liking, and whoever was still home would then have to call out a reassurance to her that someone was still there. Should anyone say, well-meaning as it might be, not to worry or not to be scared, she always responded as if it were the most ridiculous statement they could make, scoffing, rolling her eyes, and responding with incredulity.'

"Scared? Please, if I can't sit behind a double locked door and be fine, then I highly doubt the presence of Gay Berry and Lady Hummel, with their astounding lack of rippling muscles or even the ability to forcefully swing a baseball bat, is going to do much to protect me."

But every time that Puck responded to her call, coming over to her and patting her shoulder, ruffling her hair, or kissing her head or cheek, although Santana would roll her eyes and grumble, even patting his hand away, she would usually suppress a smile as well. And more often than not, she would reach out a hand and pull him to her, parking her feet across his lap, or sometimes even leaning in to give him a quick kiss.

Showers for Santana had always been long, due to whatever "girl stuff," as Puck thought of it, that she was doing in there, but now seemed unending, and she often emerged with her skin raw, red, and almost scratched in appearance, as though she had been scrubbing herself to the point of irritating her skin. She didn't talk quite as much as she used to, or with the same degree of biting, witty flare, and although those close to her had been able to tell sometimes that she took to heart comments others said to her more than she wanted them to know, Santana's sensitivity had increased to the point that it was easy to see when a comment, whether intentionally or not, had hit a mark with her.

Whereas Puck had witnessed before the abduction and found quite strange how touchy-feely she could be, not just with Brittany anymore, but with Rachel and even to an extent Kurt too, Santana's initiation of touching them had dropped to a base rate of almost zero, and if they reached out to touch her even casually, there was nearly always a moment in which everyone was holding their breath, waiting to see how she would react. With Rachel, Santana would usually tolerate and sometimes briefly return whatever casual show of affection she attempted to give her, although there was often a stiffness about her gestures that was visible and obvious to anyone observing. But with Kurt, although Santana never said it out loud, it soon became apparent from her body language, expressions, and blatant pushing of his hands and arms away from her that she didn't want him to touch her, period, not now, maybe never. It didn't take long for Kurt, on his end, to become extremely leery of even trying to do so.

Puck wasn't the most observant person in the world, but even he could tell how guilty and confused it made Kurt feel that Santana was so against him having any physical contact with her. They all knew that Kurt would never do anything to hurt her or make her deliberately uncomfortable, that she in fact would almost certainly be able to beat him down if he so much as stepped on the back of her heel, if she tried. They all knew that Kurt had had nothing to do with what had happened- although in his darker, angrier moments, it did cross Puck's mind that had Kurt not kicked them out of the apartment, then it never would have had the opportunity to happen in the first place. But as soon as he would begin to think in this manner, it would occur to him that regardless of the origin, Santana's current feelings and behavior seemed unfair. Kurt had never harmed her, had not even been present through it all; by logic, it should be Puck, rather than him, that she avoided, Puck whom she refused to let touch her or come near her, because it had been Puck who caused her the most harm.

And yet it had also been Puck who had been there when no one else had, who had held her and comforted her and tried, the best that he could, to stand up for her and to protect her, to minimize the damage done as much as possible. It had been Puck who tried to keep her distracted and as physically and mentally healthy as he could, who had planned with her how to escape. Puck had hurt her, something he still could not accept or deal with on any sort of level of comprehension. But Puck had also loved her, the best that he could manage, even if it was never something put into words but rather only understood between them. He had loved her, and so however he sometimes felt that he didn't deserve her trust over Kurt or someone else, it was there, and he was grateful for it.

Puck tried to accept the new changes in Santana without making a big deal of them, or letting Kurt or Rachel do so either. He understood where they were coming from, or thought he did, most of the time, and he knew through trial and error that trying to ignore them or change her response only made it worse. He knew that he himself had changed too, that his own reactions to things were sometimes strong and out of proportion to the actual threat or insult implied. But sometimes, despite his efforts at understanding, it was nevertheless difficult to accept. Sometimes he felt like Santana was punishing them, him and Kurt in particular, and although he privately believed her to have cause, as well as reason, that didn't mean that it hurt any less or was any less frustrating. It made him want to pull back from her sometimes, even as he wanted simultaneously to come close, to cradle and protect her from everything, even himself. It was a difficult and confusing balance, and just as often as he seemed to have made the right action, to have hit the right note, he also seemed to have failed. But still he kept trying, not giving up that maybe for at least today, or this particular moment, he could in part make up for what he still felt so strongly to be his own fault and failure.  
________________________________________


	6. Panic

They could never quite predict what it might be that would set Santana off, from day to day. Some days she might sail through multiple settings and situations with nothing more than mild tension or anxiety; some days she might require reassurance or a pep talk, but still be able to grit her teeth, raise her chin, and power through whatever was causing her stress or fear. But on some days, it seemed that everything and everyone agitated her to the point of fearing for her life, and no one ever was sure when they woke up each morning, even Santana herself, how that particular day might go.

There were predictors of what might trigger her, of course. Particularly large or tall men standing close to her or appearing within her view when she wasn't expecting it; an unexpected touch on the back, shoulder, or arm, especially from behind, could produce a violent jerking response and shrieks that would practically deafen the person foolish enough to have not warned her of their approach. Catcalls or even suggestive looks from men while she was walking down the street could elicit either an aggressive rage or a nearly paralyzing fearful response, and even watching overly amorous couples sometimes produced shudders from Santana that would, if not quickly addressed, would become full body shivering and shaking.

Puck had asked her once, during a low key moment with no known stressful triggers anywhere around them, what it was that she was thinking about when she became so frightened or upset, and Santana had gone silent for such a long time that he had looked at her with some concern, thinking that she was starting to go into a panic right in that moment because of his question. But she had rolled over in the bed to face him, her hand reaching out to lightly touch his arm, and she had spoke with quiet intensity, exhaling.

"I see things, Puck. Things that happened, or things that I'm afraid will happen, or that I was afraid back then would happen. But it's not just seeing it. It's real. Like, I know it isn't really real, at least I do afterward, but it's real right then, in that moment. It's like it's happening to me and I can see and feel everything and it's just…it's just bad, you know?"

Puck did know. He knew, because he had had it happen to him before too, although he had never voiced it in quite the way that Santana just had. It didn't happen as often or as intensely as it did with her, but it had happened, and when it did, he felt a rush of adrenaline and rage that seemed to parallel yet somehow also intersect with the fear that she felt when it happened to her. When it happened to Puck, he just wanted to be left alone, for people to give him space and time to reprocess, but when it happened to Santana, she needed comfort and attention, immediately, and it now made sense to him why.

Even before her explanation, he had always tried to do this for her. As soon as he could tell that Santana was struggling, whether she was already in the midst of one of her panics or just getting closer into slipping into it, Puck would go to her, kicking into high gear protective mode in whatever way the circumstances would allow. If that meant taking Santana's hands and squeezing them, talking to her and looking her in the eyes, hugging her, stroking her hair, rubbing her back, taking her on his lap and rocking her like a little girl, or even lying down and holding her, he would do it, whatever it took to reorient her to the present, to calm her and reconnect her thoughts to him and his proximity. She had never instructed him to do this, nor had he ever really analyzed why it seemed to work, but now he understood.

He wanted to be there for her every time, a consistent person, face, and pair of arms that would always, unfailingly give her what she seemed to need, and maybe, just maybe, if he kept being there, if he kept bringing her back to their present reality, maybe one day she wouldn't need to be. Maybe one day, she would never slip away.

88

Puck wasn't supposed to have his cell phone on him while he was at work. Apparently most of the teenage stock boys and cashier girls he worked with, most of them who were barely old enough to drive, would happily pass most of their shift texting and most likely, sexting if they were given free reign to carry them around rather than performing the tedious menial duties they were supposed to be. But Puck, and most of his coworkers as well, always ignored this rule, carrying their phones concealed in their pockets, turned to vibrate. Puck couldn't afford to leave it home or even in the break room in his locker for the length of his shift, and not just because he was addicted to technology like the rest of those pimple-heads. If Santana needed him, he couldn't afford to miss her call, and that was all there was to it.

When he felt the phone vibrate in his pocket, Puck casually walked into one of the aisles and pulled it out, hiding it against the shelves as he checked its screen. Kurt was calling, and that was enough to concern him. Kurt didn't call him without good reason, ever, certainly not when he knew that he was at work and not supposed to be talking to anyone at all. This could only be bad news of some kind, and so without even waiting to excuse himself into the restroom or some other more remote and private setting, Puck quickly answered the call, his mind already racing through all the possibilities. Rachel? His parents? Another Glee kid? Or-

"It's Santana," Kurt said immediately, confirming his most immediate suspicion and dread. His voice was tight and slightly higher than normal, the strain obvious in his tone. "We're at work and she's freaking out, you know how she gets…she was really beating on this customer, Puck, she almost broke his nose, and no one but Rachel can get even a little bit close to her, they can't calm her down. This is really bad, Puck, the customer is really pissed off and our manager is really angry and all these customers are seeing it, if this doesn't get smoothed over fast not only is she not going to have a job but she might end up in jail! You have to come, you have to do something-"

"On my way," Puck cut him off, not needing an extra second to think it over. It didn't matter about his job, it didn't matter that he himself was probably going to be at minimum written up for leaving work without permission or warning, or even signing off the clock. Kurt was saying that Santana needed him, and that was all that mattered to him. Screw everything and everyone that even tried to get in his way of getting to her.

He could hear his manager calling out his name as he strode towards the front door, phone still out in his hand, but he didn't even glance back at him. He knew he almost certainly wouldn't have a job the next day, but what the hell, it wasn't like he exactly wanted to make a career out of being a stock boy, and there were plenty of grocery stores in New York City. Puck kept walking, his strides long and fast, and although the diner where his roommates worked was several blocks away, he didn't even consider taking a cab.

As soon as he pushed open the diner doors, he could hear Santana even through the confused throng of voices around her, addressing her, raising their voices at her, and in the case of Kurt and Santana, attempting to soothe her, but their own voices were anxious and pleading more so than genuinely calming, whatever their intentions. Puck could see that Santana was sitting, knees drawn to her chest, arms tightly wrapped around them, behind the bar counter, her head down, hair half concealing her face as she tried with great difficulty to suck in breaths that shook through her whole slim frame. Santana's breathing was audible, visible, and clearly agitated, and though she wasn't crying, the anguish twisting her features broke Puck's heart. He was all too familiar with this.

Several customers were staring in her direction, and a man that Puck assumed to be their manager was shaking his head, his face red, his features stiff with irritation and embarrassment. Kurt stood back several feet from her, occasionally attempting to speak to her but not daring to touch her, and Rachel squatted beside her, occasionally patting Santana's arm, but not attempting, at least then, to do much more physically. Both looked up with relief when Puck came forward, and Rachel stood with a slight wince, as though she found the gesture uncomfortable.

"Oh, I'm so glad you're here, Noah. Santana is very upset, as you can see. There was a customer who was quite persistent today in pursuing her, I suppose he found her attractive, which I tried to explain to her is natural with her appearance, and he was very slow to catch on to her rejection, though I found it to be very firm and clear. He insisted on continuing to come stand by her and address her and give her looks which I suppose were intended to be alluring, but were rather inconsiderate considering how she did not wish to be bothered. I'm not sure entirely what happened, although Kurt and I did try to watch, but I suppose he must have said or done something which crossed the line, because she screamed and started hitting him and I must say his eye was rather swollen by the time we got her back, and now she's just-"

But Puck was barely listening to her; none of what she said mattered. It wasn't the cause he cared about then, but only Santana and where she was then. Squatting beside her, he reached for her hands, gently holding them in his and caressing his thumbs over their backs. Lifting both to his lips, he kissed her knuckles, one at a time, before speaking to her.

"'Tana. Hey, 'Tana. I'm here. You're all right now, okay? You're all right. I'm here. Right here."

He repeated this several times, stroking and squeezing her hands, reaching out one hand to brush her hair back from her face, and slowly Santana lifted her face from her knees, her eyes drifting up to meet Puck's. They were bright with fear, shimmering with held back tears, and when she fell into him, her arms tightly wrapped around his neck, Puck held her, ignoring the newly curious gawking of everyone near.

For the next full week he stalked the diner, just hoping to catch a glimpse of the man who had been unable to take no for an answer. Puck wasn't a genius when it came to words, but he did think he'd do a decent job of teaching the guy how to understand that one, given an opportunity.


	7. Brittany

He tried not to listen, the few times that Santana answered her phone when someone called. It seemed rude, invasive, comparable to going through her phone or hacking into her accounts online. He knew how pissed off she would get if she thought that he was deliberately trying to determine, without her permission, what she was saying to someone in a private conversation, and although Puck and Santana both butted heads and rubbed each other wrong on a fairly frequent basis, Puck knew better than to try.  
But the problem was that genuine privacy was difficult to come by in their loft, even within the confines of the bathroom, which was where Santana had retreated with her cell phone the moment she glanced at its ringing screen. Unless she ran the water the entire time- a bill that they couldn't have afforded to pay for, even between the four of them- it was unavoidable for Puck, unless he walked out of the apartment entirely, to catch snatches of Santana's end of the conversation, even if he was trying his hardest not to listen or hear.

And okay, admittedly maybe he really wasn't trying too hard not to. It wasn't like he had borrowed Rachel's ear plugs or put on his headphones, or done anything, really, beyond not go stand outside the door with his ear pressed against its keyhole. And in fact, he kept the volume of the TV in the living room turned low- not, he told himself, and was pretty sure he believed, because he was trying to hear what Santana was saying, but because he wanted to make sure that if she got upset, he would be able to tell and respond if needed.

This was a Brittany phone call, and that left higher potential for grief than any other person's on the planet.

"Yeah, I'm okay, Britt," he could hear her muffled voice through the door, and likely the shower curtain as well. Puck could just see her crouching in the tub, thinking herself protected by another layer from others between the curtain and the door, though the shower curtain was thin and not the best of a noise blocker. "No, I am, really."

A pause, during which Puck attempted to busy himself flipping through the TV guide, though he couldn't give a shit what it said or what was playing, either nor or any time in the future. He tried to flip the pages as loudly as he could not so much to block Santana totally out as to convince himself he was trying.

"I'm not lying, Britt, seriously," Santana was saying, her voice sounding weary more than exasperated or angry, as she might have with anyone else. Puck could not remember, in all the years he had known her, having ever witnessed Santana really angry with Brittany, despite her free expression of rage towards any other person who happened to even unintentionally provoke it, and it was partly this knowledge among other things that made it difficult for him to totally try to block her out. "It's…the truth is just more complicated now, that's all. You know? Sometimes things are just…hard to define, or they're two things or everything all at once, like…I don't know. Isn't there a number or math equation like that somewhere? Like…pi? Bad example. I guess math is sort of just a one-thing thing, maybe that's why it's hard for you to get."

Puck flipped another page, shifted himself on the couch, and tried to tell himself not to think about what she was saying. Maybe Brittany couldn't, but he could understand completely what she meant, about a complicated truth, about things being nothing and everything and both and neither at exactly the same time. That described so much of what he felt lately, so much of everything and everyone in his life. But mostly, it described how he felt, how things were with Santana…except for the part about nothing. Never, ever in his eyes, could whatever it was he had with Santana ever be described as nothing.

"I sound sad? No I don't. I do not sound sad, why would I? I'm talking to you, there's no sadness in that."

Santana's voice was flippant, even cheerful, amused, but even with the distance and physical barriers between them, and his half-hearted effort not to listen too closely, Puck could have immediately contradicted her. Whatever Santana tried to say otherwise, there was a softer, more subdued tone to her voice now most days, and there certainly was when she spoke to Brittany now. He could say one thing about Brittany, and that was that, oblivious as she might be to the average daily encounters that most people automatically understood, she had never been oblivious to Santana. She had, in fact, understood Santana in a way that had seemed mysterious and inexplicable to Puck before everything that had gone down, and he was pretty sure she understood her even now…although maybe this too had been one of the changes Santana had referred to, that was no longer quite true.

"Okay, well, maybe I am a little…but it's hard not to be, Britt, you know? Maybe a little, but it doesn't mean anything, you don't have to worry, I promise," Santana was saying, her voice softer still, almost to the point that Puck could no longer hear. "I promise…no, they're all being nice, no talking tos are needed. Suffocatingly nice. Nice to the point that I really would like to strangle them with their own hair and rip off their sympathetic little grimaces right off their lips one day."

She chuckled lightly, but even this seemed sad rather than genuinely amused, distracted. And her voice immediately grew more serious when she spoke again.

"No, Britt…stop. Please just stop."

Puck tensed up at this, his head automatically lifting, and he didn't even pretend to be trying not to listen. Not when he could now tell that Santana was upset, or about to be; not when that particular word came up. He sat up straighter, turning his ears slightly towards the door, and listened, considerably more alert.

"You know it's not that," Santana was saying. "I'm sorry, Britt…I know I'm different. I know. I know…I know things aren't like they were." There was a pause before she spoke again, her voice considerably more shaky. "I didn't want them to be either, but they are…they just…they just are."

Puck remained still, listening, resisting his urge to fully turn around purely because he knew that if he did, Santana could emerge from the bathroom and catch him staring at her, know exactly what he was doing. Okay, so he wasn't being exactly honorable, but when it came to her feelings and a possible need to step in, privacy be damned, that was his current opinion.

"No, I don't want to talk about it….you know that, Britt. I just don't, okay? I just…I can't," and Santana's voice was softer now, small, barely more than an exhaled sigh. "I just can't, Brittany. I'm sorry."

Puck had to take several breaths to keep himself calm, reminding himself that Santana could handle this, that it was she, not him, who knew her boundaries, that she could guide and end the conversation as needed. This was only Brittany; she did not mean to hurt, and she would never knowingly cause harm.

And yet part of him could not believe this, part of him challenged this darkly. For how many times had Brittany hurt Santana in the past, never quite meaning it, but nevertheless causing damage? How many people, by trying to help her now, were nevertheless in their good intentions causing pain?

"You know I want to see you, of course I do," he barely tuned back in, in time to hear Santana saying, more assuredly now. "But maybe not just now, okay? No…no, definitely I don't need time to think, I'm thinking way too much already."

He heard her laugh lightly, but he could hear the sadness behind it, how quickly it ended. It made him want to get up right then and go to her, touch her in some small way, but he made himself remain seated. It was crazy to feel this much, to think this much, in the course of one phone call, one he shouldn't even be listening to.

Wasn't it?

"I love you too," he heard her say, the words soft, almost a sigh, and then nothing more. Puck strained to hear, barely stopping himself from turning around after all, but then the bathroom door was opening, and Santana emerged, head slightly down, her face in a carefully neutral expression, but not enough so that he couldn't see the sadness in her eyes.

"'Sup?" he asked her, trying to keep his voice casual.

Santana's mouth quirked into something between a smile and a smirk, as though she could not quite decide which gesture was more appropriate and didn't really mean either one. She slumped down beside him, close, but not quite touching, and did not respond with words. Puck hesitated, debating on what to say, but in the end, decided on nothing at all. Instead he reached out, lightly touching her cheek, and when he felt her press into his hand, then slowly curl into him, her head against his shoulder, he encircled her with his arm, lightly stroking her hair.

He hated to see her sad, but it meant more to him than he could have explained that it was him she came to for comfort.


	8. Movies

Puck suspected that there had been a definite decline in movie and television watching in the loft since Santana came home from the hospital. Not so much on Santana's part; she often watched Disney or cartoon movies, on her bad days, always out on the living room TV rather than on her own laptop, which hadn't been opened or turned on even once since she had returned, from what Puck could tell. But if anyone else wanted to watch anything, it had been slowly decided, without ever having had an elaborate discussion about it at all, that they would do so on their laptops, through Netflix, youtube, or simply putting in whatever DVD it was they wanted to see.

It wasn't just because of Santana that this shift had been made, although of course she was a huge reason for it. It simply wasn't worth watching the news if it would mean that Santana would be terrified for the next week because it was showing a high profile kidnapping, bombing, new school shooting, or robbery that she would become convinced would now happen to her or people she cared about. More nights than he cared to remember, Puck had returned home from work to find her near hyperventilating on the couch, knees tightly hugged to her chest as her eyes darted between Kurt and Rachel as they tried unsuccessfully to convince her that a serial killer in California would not randomly make his way to Lima, Ohio or New York City. Puck had eventually blown up at them so harshly for continuing to watch that kind of news so openly that the three of them had been unable to look at each other for the next two days- them, out of hurt and guilt, him out of shame and embarrassment over his loss of control.

For the next four days he had spent every night before he and Santana could manage to go to sleep rubbing her back, playing with the fingers of her left hand, and trying to assure her increasingly paranoid thoughts that there was no danger to her, until he was ready to promise her that at the very least, there was about to be danger to Kurt and Rachel.

"But what if he does come to New York City, Puck, it would be what I'd do, it's a huge city and you can blend in and no one will find you or even look twice, it's the perfect serial killer city because no one even looks at anyone!" Santana had maintained, forcing Puck to try to use humor to defuse.

"Exactly, San, and that's why you're totally safe here. City like this, there's so many hot girls that if no one ain't looking at YOU twice, ain't even a serial killer gonna slow down for you."

"But he could," Santana had continued to argue, "he could and what if he did? Those girls on the news kind of sort of look like Rachel, what if they go to her…RACHEL! Are you still walking with Kurt every day to class?! Shit, like that even matters, what the hell would Lady Lips do if someone wanted to take TinyBerry down?! That's it, you're both walking with baseball bats…can either of them even swing a baseball bat?"

And then a new question had struck her, one that caused her to dig her nails hard into Pucks skin, her face burying deep into the crook of his neck as she barely whispered her fear. "What if some of those men…the ones in the basement…what if they aren't really dead, Puck? Or what if there were more we didn't know about…or what if their family wants to come after us and get revenge? How will we even recognize them?"

It was a chilling question, one that Puck hadn't considered before and didn't want to consider then. He had no answer, because the truth was, all he could do was hope like hell she was overthinking it. He had kissed her head and rubbed her back, telling her she was safe, but was that ever something they could really guarantee?

It was fairly inevitable, given all this, that TV would become a thing of the past in the loft.

But it wasn't just Santana and her new sensitivity to violence that had resulted in the TV ban. Although he didn't want to admit it, he himself had grown quite agitated at certain scenes of certain types of movies, and it bothered him just as much, if not more, possibly, than her, to even walk in on a few minutes of them. But how was he supposed to admit this, when he was the man, when he was the one supposed to be making everyone else feel more protected?

But it was perfectly true that any time someone was watching a show with cop shootouts or chases, with any kind of murder or abuse, Puck tensed up, almost certain he could physically feel heavy fists raining down on his back and sides and face, that if he looked in the mirror, he would still see the remnants of cuts, bruises, and broken bones, a collection of wounds staring back at him. He could feel his heartbeat speeding up, his hands balling into fists, the veins standing out on his arms as they began to shake with the effort of holding back his instinct to start swinging out at someone, anything that drew close.

But it was the sexual movies that got to him the worst. It wasn't like Rachel or Kurt were the type to often watch violent movies or certainly not overly sexual ones, but there had at one point been previews for movies or shows on TV, and Puck himself would sometimes start to watch something before realizing the direction it was going. And they both did certainly like their musicals, which contained scenes that Puck himself had not at all been prepared to encounter.

The night he walked into the living room and saw that they were watching a movie with poorly dressed old-timey women in a dark alley, approaching shady men, Puck had immediately stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he looked from his roommates to the screen, suspicious.

"What the hell are you watching?"

"Les Miserables…it's really good, it's a French musical based on the novel by Victor Hugo," Rachel informed him hopefully, giving him a small. "Would you like to watch it with us? We did ask Santana but she said she would rather not, she's in your bedroom. We're keeping the volume low in case the singing bothers her, and there are some scenes of violence that we thought might disturb her…"

But Puck was paying no attention to what she was saying. Instead his eyes were glued to the screen, where one of the prostitutes- for he could not think that they were anything but- was now singing and sobbing as she lets a man come close, obviously in distress. It was very clear to Puck who she was and what was happening to her, against her will, how terribly she was suffering, and as he remained very still, feeling his breath leave out and not immediately re-enter his lungs, a heavy shaking started up his arms and down his torso, nausea twisting his gut.

They were watching a rape scene. They were watching a scene with a woman being forced into prostitution, with literally a curtain and nothing more separating them from Santana. They were watching this movie with a scene like that in it and calling it good, and they saw nothing- NOTHING- wrong with that.

"What the fuck is wrong with you!?" he blurted, his voice rising up louder and much more aggressively than he had originally intended. "What the fuck are you watching, what the fuck is this?!"

"It's…Puck, it's just Les Mis, it's just a musical," Kurt stammered, her eyes going wide, but Puck wasn't listening to her, his voice growing even louder at this.

"A musical, a fucking musical about people fucking each other?! You're telling me people sing songs about girls getting fucked against their will, girls being FORCED to fuck those smelling rich assholes, and it's okay because it's a MUSICAL, because they SING about it?!"

"Puck, of course it's not okay…but this is just one part of the story. Just one, and it gets better, the whole movie isn't like that," Rachel tried to soothe him, but even she had to back down, mumbling somewhat shamefacedly, "Well, it sort of is depressing all the way through, but even so, it still has quality and value that quite makes up for-"

"Nothing makes up for people forcing girls to fuck them!" Puck almost screamed, and as both Kurt and Rachel flinched, blinking rapidly, he stalked towards the TV, almost punching the power off. "Nothing is QUALITY, there is no VALUE in making a movie about people doing that shit!"

"Okay…okay, Puck, we understand. We- " Kurt started, and his hands flew up automatically, as though to try to ward off an approaching attack, as Puck shook his head hard, denying his words.

"You don't understand! You obviously don't understand one damn thing because if you did, we wouldn't be having this discussion, if you did, we wouldn't be standing here talking about this at all! If you understood, you'd never go anywhere near this kind of bullshit, let alone put it in my house on my TV screen where I walk in and see that shit!"

"Noah…you're right. He's right," Rachel said to Kurt, but her voice was still small, and she swallowed, taking a breath in and looking at Kurt as though eliciting help or support from him before continuing. "You're absolutely right, Noah, and we won't watch it anymore. It clearly isn't appropriate and I do apologize that we were not more considerate."

That should have been enough for him, and under normal circumstances, it probably would have been. They seemed genuinely contrite for watching the movie, and more than a little concerned, even frightened, by how deeply it affected him. Normally, Puck wouldn't want them to look at him like that, like he needed to be appeased or humored, like he might suddenly lose control and do something terrible, something that could potentially even hurt them. Normally, he wouldn't like the thought or feeling of being someone's fear. The parallel of himself, using his body and his words, his anger and his size, to strike dread or unease in someone, to make them feel trapped or as though they had to obey for their own safety, was not something he was comfortable with, not anymore, considering how he and Santana had been forced to endure this from their captors.

But that night, he couldn't seem to think of this or care about this. That night, he could only focus on his own anger, and he didn't care what anyone else thought or felt. Not then.

"It's not entertainment, it's not something to watch and "appreciate" or "value," it's not something to sing along to and get fake tears over, it's not GOOD and it's not FUNNY and it's not FUN! It's reality, do either of you two understand the least bit that it's fucking real? That's people's fucking lives! Not some stupid Hollywood story where everyone links arms at the end and sings, not some ridiculous fantasy where everyone cleans up after and dresses up in suits and slutty dresses and gets penis shaped statues and has everyone say how fucking brave and moving and talented they were in their fucking not-real movie. It's not like that, not even the damn people in this thing know how it really is! That's fucking real! Real!"

"Of course it is, Noah, for some people, somewhere…but not for those people," Rachel said tentatively, leaning forward, even extending a hand towards him, but then slowly drawing it back to herself when Puck turned an incredulous glare her way. "I-I know that, that some people used to have lives like that, and-and still do, I'm sure, and that's, it's really horrible, and I know you hate to think about it given whatever…whatever it was that you and- never mind that. It's just…I know, Kurt and I know, but those people, the ones on screen, it isn't real for them. Those people are okay in real life, Noah, they really are-"

"Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think I don't know that, you think I care?"

"Rachel, be quiet, completely not helping here," Kurt hissed, pinching her arm, but Puck barely heard him. He was starting to pace again, delivering an occasional vicious kick to the coffee table, armchair, or any other nearby and solid furniture in his path as he continued.

"That's exactly WHY they don't have any business doing that shit! They haven't been there, they don't know what it's like! You can't get rich, you can't make yourself fucking famous showing someone else's life when you don't know a damn thing about it, and people can't sit back and watch it like it's all fun and games when they don't either! You can't do that, people just can't fucking do that!"

Puck was so worked up by this point that he didn't hear the approaching footsteps behind him, wasn't aware of Santana near him until he almost ran into her. When her hand reached out, closing lightly around his bicep, he stiffened, almost jerking away from her instinctively, but when she squeezed lightly, then slid her hand down his arm, gently entwining her fingers with his, he felt his muscles loosen up just slightly, even as he spoke again, his words now addressed to her, but losing some steam.

"It's not fucking right. You can't do that when you don't fucking understand…you just can't."

"I know, babe," she said quietly, squeezing his hand again, as Puck's breath released in a long sigh. "I know."

"It's not right," he repeated, his voice quieter, almost shaky, as Santana's arm circled his waist, her head leaning into his shoulder, her other hand still lightly grasped in his as she walked with him slowly, guiding him back to their curtained off bedroom. "It just isn't fucking right."

"I know," she repeated, her voice still softer, her thumb slowly circling over the back of his hand. "I know…I know."

Puck's breath came more slowly, in long, slightly ragged exhalations, and it wasn't until Santana gently helped him sit on the bed, pushing back at his shoulders for him to lie down, that he realized his throat was tight, choked up, his eyes burning with unshed tears. As Santana joined him on the bed, removing his shoes and throwing them to the floor, he felt the bed dip with her movements and swallowed, trying but finding himself unable to speak. A few moments later she lay down up against him, her body curved around his back, spooning him the best that her smaller frame was able. Thighs against the back of his legs, breasts flattening against his back, face buried at the back of his neck, Santana wrapped her arms around him, her hands still held in his. Puck could feel her breath, slow, slightly ticklish, against his skin, her hair, soft and smooth, against his arm, and his muscles relaxed a bit more, his voice finally emerging, quiet and choked, as he spoke to her almost in a whisper.

"It's real, Santana," he tells her one more time, "they don't understand how real."

 

He feels her lips press against the back of his neck, her thin arms tighten around him, and somehow it is both a comfort and a promise, all at once.

"I know, baby…I know."


	9. Cuddling

"I didn't use to shower," Santana said softly, seemingly out of nowhere, and Puck raised an eyebrow, lifting his head from hers to look at her more closely.

"Yeah? Can't say I remember you walking around smelling like armpits and old ladies too much, so I guess you covered well."

Santana smirked, rolling her eyes, and hit him lightly with her closed fist before stretching out the same arm, then letting it fall down into her lap with a groan of enjoyment at the stretch.

"Don't be an idiot. Old ladies smell like mothballs and powder and since when do I wear anything remotely approaching full on polyester?"

Puck, who has no idea what polyester is, shrugged, having no response to that. Rolling her eyes again and making a noise of not-too-genuinely-irritated irritation, Santana curled back up against him against him in the living room's armchair, repeating herself.

"But I wasn't showering too much, at first, after. You know."

Puck looked down at her again, taking her more seriously now that he knew what she was alluding to. It was Santana's way to refer to their abduction and the horrors that had gone with it piecemeal now, only giving him small glimpses of insight into her feelings and thoughts on her own schedule, as she felt ready, rather than abiding by any efforts on anyone else's part. He knew that any time she did bring something up that had anything to do with it, without prodding, she wanted him to listen and take her seriously, and he tried to do that then, to get himself into the mindset to be able to handle whatever it was she needed to say.

"Yeah? Do you know why, San?"

They were the only ones in the apartment, with Kurt and Rachel both at school and both he and Santana not having work until later in the day. Puck had been pleased with this arrangement, since it meant more space, more privacy, and since Santana seemed to be in a good mood today, more possibilities about how the day for just the two of them could be utilized. And things had seemed to be going well- Santana had teased and snarked with him, responded well to touch and kisses, and even initiated not only sharing the not-too-large armchair, but curling up partly over him, partly beside him, in it. he didn't want to let go of that to get into something serious and probably painful, but if Santana wanted to talk about it, then he was going to have to try.

"Yeah, sort of," Santana shrugged slightly, her voice quiet. She took a fistful of Puck's shirt in her hand, squeezing, then letting it go, then repeating the gesture again. She continued to knead the fabric of his shirt between her fingers, seeming to derive odd fascination or perhaps comfort from the gesture, as she continued to talk, in short bursts of speech.

"Well, I didn't want to be naked long, for one."

She didn't elaborate, though little elaboration was needed for Puck to understand. He had one hand on her back, idly stroking up and down her spine, and when Santana gave a faint shiver, he looked down, frowning slightly with some concern. But it seemed her reaction was one of pleasure rather than fear or distaste, so he resumed his gentle touch, making it a bit firmer than before to avoid any tickling sensations for her.

"Yeah?" was all he said to prod her along, if she chose, and Santana nodded, the hand not kneading Puck's shirt slipping slightly beneath it, her fingers slowly, almost tentatively stroking his side. Puck swallowed, trying to keep still, to keep from reacting too much to this touch on her part, and Santana continued, her hand moving up a little higher towards his ribcage as she spoke.

"Yeah, and, I don't know. It felt sort of weird. Like I didn't want anyone around because they might…I don't know, look or come in or something…but I didn't want them NOT around because what if someone DID try to look or come in or something?"

She gave a sarcastic laugh and eye roll, but Puck didn't find it very funny and knew she didn't either. He said nothing, nor did he point out that this feeling was an ongoing one for her rather than one in her past. He just waited, nodding slightly to know he heard, and began to finger the ends of her hair, tugging lightly. This relaxed Santana further, as he knew it would. It might sound girly and lame for him to do, but he had discovered long ago that anyone playing with Santana's hair was usually enough not only to mellow her out, but almost a guarantee to ease towards getting his way with something with her.

"So I figured I'd avoid the issue and just not shower," Santana shrugged after a minute or two of quiet, as though she had never stopped talking. She made a faint noise of contentment at Puck's attentions, her head lolling against his shoulder, her hand flattening against his side under his shirt, and he felt her weight shift more heavily against him, her body unconsciously inviting him to continue. Half smirking, half smiling to himself, he did just that, one arm circling her waist and pulling her closer, his free hand giving longer, slower strokes of her hair, combing his fingers through and working gently through tangles they encountered. Head coming to rest against Puck's cheek, Santana curled her legs in a little closer to herself as Puck commented, keeping his response light.

"Bet that smelled good. You mean Rach and Kurt didn't spazz out and give you one of Miss Pillsbury's pamphlets about the dire importance of cleanliness?"

"If they had had one, they would have," Santana snickered, and Puck was pleased to see her eyes glint with genuine amusement, dimples flickering briefly into view in her cheeks. "No, instead I got their version." She imitated Rachel's voice, making it go up high and anxious in tone and very rapid in volume. "Santana, I am not at all trying to make you feel pressured or upset in any way, and this is certainly not intended as a hurtful or personal remark, but I just wanted to express concern and make you aware that Kurt and I truly do feel-"

She snorted, her breath tickling Puck's neck as she shook her head, remembering. "And Kurt's back there all huge-eyed and terrified, putting his hands up and telling her to leave him totally out of this. And Rachel's all "I am not quite sure you are aware that irregular bathing can be a serious health hazard, you can become quite seriously ill if you do not rid yourself of the germs and slowly collecting dust and dirt particles that collect on human skin on a daily basis…blah blah blah do you realize that the sweat that every human naturally puts forth each day will form over your skin as a new layer and it is not only breeding bacteria and possible infection and disease, but also quite frankly can become an unpleasant odor for those around you?"

She was laughing aloud now, obviously remembering Rachel's wide-eyed earnestness in addressing her, and Puck smiled a little too, though he couldn't see the humor as much as Santana apparently now could. Sure, he had done the exact same thing in the basement- telling Santana to shower and wash up, telling her to eat and drink and do what was needed to take care of herself, and certainly not always with anything approaching patience or good humor. Even now he sometimes lost his patience with her on the days she wouldn't eat, ending up raising his voice and ordering her rather than trying to cajole or reason her through it, like the strangely more patient Rachel, who actually normally had more success with her in that particular area. Still, even knowing this, it was difficult for him to hear about Rachel basically informing Santana that she stank without getting a little angry over it. What right did Rachel have to say anything when she couldn't' in any way understand?

"So what got you showering again? Rachel nagging you?" he asked, taking what he thought was a subtle sniff of her hair, until Santana reached up to shove at his forehead, rolling her eyes at him.

"Dude, you don't have to test me, you know I shower now. Nah, wasn't her…I probably would have kept it up for six months just to irritate her, if that was the only factor in there. I guess I just got tired of stinking…and of being afraid."

The last part was said casually, almost too much so, so Puck said nothing. He resumed the stroking of Santana's hair, shifting her slightly against him so she was more fully and comfortably on his lap, and Santana let him, still fairly relaxed. Another minute or two passed before she spoke again, her voice softer, almost sleepy.

"There was the shampoo thing too."

No elaboration on her part right away, so again Puck waited. It didn't take very long for her to start to explain.

"I just…sort of had this thing. Not wanting to use any, or even look at it. I guess because what we pretended with it, you know? And having to have it in my mouth, even though I didn't swallow it. It was just…I don't know. I didn't want to use any for a while."

This made sense to Puck too, and he nodded, acknowledging what she was saying. He waited, still stroking her hair, arm circled around her, expecting more. But it seemed that Santana was done talking for the moment. He could feel her body getting heavier and more relaxed against him, her breath evening out against his neck, and even before he looked down to check he could tell when she had fallen asleep, still curled into him mostly in his lap.

This would undoubtedly end if Rachel or Kurt came home; the opening door would jerk Santana awake and out of Puck's lap, and she would be defensive, likely pretending to both them and Puck that this had never happened at all. It didn't matter that they all frequently saw her touching or sitting with him, kissing him, or that they frequently shared a bed. Santana didn't like to be caught off guard, and her first response would always be to be on the defensive.

But for now, she was peaceful, resting, and trusting him, fully trusting him, and though he never could say it to her, never quite could word it to himself, Puck cherished those moments. He held her, his hand continuing to slowly caress her hair, and knew that one way or the other, whether he carried her to bed or held her in the chair all day long, the fact that she would allow this, that she would trust herself in this way to him over everyone else, was a statement of greater magnitude than her actual words.


	10. Relationship status

It seemed to Puck that everyone he knew, and many people he didn't, made a hell of a lot of assumptions about him and Santana, and not a single one of them was entirely accurate.

He guessed in the age of the Facebook relationship statuses, it made sense that everyone around them seemed to want to have some kind of definition as to what exactly they were to each other. They wanted to know if they were "just friends" or "dating," "in a relationship," whatever that even meant anyway, or "boyfriend and girlfriend." They wanted to know if they were "friends with benefits" or something along those lines, and whether or not they outright asked, he could nevertheless tell from their not-so-subtle questions or implications that for some reason Puck himself could not quite fathom, having an exact label for them seemed to be important to everyone except for himself and Santana.

He could see the questions in Kurt's and Rachel's eyes every time Santana lay her head on his shoulder and curled into his side on the couch, every time she sat in his lap or that he reached without thinking for her hand as they stepped outside, pulling her protectively close against him. He could see the small, hopeful smile that Rachel gave every time Santana wordlessly tugged Puck to her curtained off area to stay the night with her, and the furrowed concern and confusion she showed every time she banished him to the couch instead. He could hear in Kurt's not-so-casual questions about their plans for the night or the weekend, in the way that he asked how they had slept, exactly what it was the other man really was wanting to know. He certainly could see it when Kurt took his sneaky camera photos of Santana sprawled across the couch, her head in Puck's lap, her feet in Rachel's, and all the comments that were posted in response.

But as much as people asked, and as curious as they seemed to be to want to know, Puck had no answer to give them, because he himself wasn't sure, nor did he feel a need to define it. He and Santana never discussed it, and if she didn't feel a desire for drawing specific labels or parameters, then neither did he.

He knew that he enjoyed being close to her, spending time with her, that he could not sleep at night until he could hear Santana's faint snore first. He knew that he loved the feeling of her hair against his fingers, her soft skin beneath his lips, and he knew that no matter how scarred and bruised it could get, no matter how intent she was upon covering it up, Santana's body was flawless to his eyes, and Santana herself was the most beautiful woman he had ever known. He knew that when Santana's fingers slid into his, when she turned to look at him and give him a genuine smile, when she lay in his arms at night, her arms around his waist, her face buried in his chest, and whispered thoughts, fears, and dreams into his skin, he felt like more of a man, more trusted and powerful and whole, than he ever would have thought possible.

He could count on one hand how many times he had said aloud to Santana that he loved her, and if he added into that number how many times Santana had said the same for him, there would still be a finger or two left over all the same. But Puck could see it in the dimples that showed only for him now, in the way Santana looked and called for him alone when she was in need. He felt it swell in his heart every time she pushed herself forward in some way to make him proud of her, so very proud for how hard she was trying, how far she had come, in the way his name sometimes sounded on her tongue.

They didn't need a Facebook relationship status to know; they didn't need spoken words or verbal explanations. They didn't' need to explain to everyone that they were more than friends but maybe not quite dating, and it was insulting to Puck to even have to clarify that it was not a "fuck buddies" interaction between them.

That was the only question or assumption that really got to him from everyone. It was one thing for it to be assumed that they were dating; this he could understand and shrug off. But for people to assume that he and Santana didn't really care about each other, that they would just use each other for sex and then go about their business- even if this might have been admittedly exactly their arrangement before, years ago- pissed Puck off beyond what he could sometimes control. It was none of anyone's business what he or Santana did or didn't do together sexually, but the truth was that he hadn't so much as touched her bare breast since their escape, not in a sexual manner, at any rate, let alone had sex with her or even had it seriously cross his mind to ask. He couldn't have imagined asking, after what had happened, couldn't have dreamed of a scenario where she would want to, no matter how much kissing or cuddling had gone down. And if Puck was perfectly honest with himself- something he tried at most times to avoid- he would have had to admit that even the thought of having sex with Santana, even a perfectly willing and eager Santana, was not only terrifying to him, it was not something he even desired.

It didn't really make a lot of sense, he guessed. He was young, he was a sexual person, certainly, and he loved sex; he loved sex with Santana, or he had once. Santana was young, sexual too, if not so much towards males, and she was beautiful….and he loved her. And yet Puck didn't want sex with her. Not at all.

But then again, Puck himself no longer wanted sex…period.

It wasn't like he didn't have an opportunity outside of Santana. There were always girls coming into his workplace, many who were attractive and quite flirtacious, some who had made it clear that they were up for anything Puck might offer. If he had wanted to, he could go home with a different girl every night and deal with the fall out later.

But the truth was that Puck didn't want to. When any girl but Santana came too close to him, touching his arm or shoulder, he flinched without quite meaning to, backing away. The thought of his hands touching her bare skin, reaching to undress her, made his throat tighten, and the thought of actually having sex with any of them made him feel shaky and almost physically ill.

It was alarming in some ways; Noah Puckerman, not wanting to have sex? Noah Puckerman, actually uninterested in touching and being touched by pretty girls? It was crazy, definitely fucked up, no pun intended. But Puck couldn't help his own response, and so he tried the best that he could to simply avoid them.

Because every time he let his thoughts drift in that direction, unwanted mental images of Santana would come to his mind. Santana's body, bare and riddled with goosebumps as she shivered, dreading his touch. Santana's tears wetting his neck, Santana's cold shuddering beneath his as she tried to disguise her trembling as an orgasm. Santana's choked voice whispering for him to hurry, trying to hold back audible sobbing, Santana's anguished expression the moment the cameras were turned off and she could no longer pretend. He could not even think of sex now without thinking of Santana's pain, of exactly where its source had come from, and there was nothing desirable or sexy about it anymore at all.

But no one else seemed to understand that. Everyone seemed to expect that it was only Santana rather than Puck who could have possibly changed, and every time there was even the smallest implication that Puck might not understand this, he grew more and more furious to hear it- especially from the people who were supposedly his friends.

"I'm not going to pretend I know what's going on," Quinn had told Puck on one occasion over Facebook chat, of all things. It was the one time that Puck had decided to log in and had been stunned by the number of messages and comments waiting on him, most thinly veiled nosiness from people he didn't give a shit about and who he knew didn't really give a shit about him either. He had, however, accepted a private message from Quinn, expecting her to be above all of this, but she had in her own way disappointed him too.

"I've been seeing the pictures of you and Santana, Puck, which Kurt seems only too happy to post…not sure what he's trying to prove, or what point he's trying to make," she had begun in what seemed to Puck a rather dry opening tone. "But I wanted to talk to you about it. I know the two of you have a past and now even more so, and honestly I don't really want to know the details of all the past because it's not only not my business but would make me very uncomfortable and probably a little skeeved off too. But Puck…what you're doing with San now…I really don't think it's such a good idea."

Of course Puck had grown defensive, because for one thing, Quinn was right, whatever he and Santana chose to do was absolutely none of her business. But where did she get off on giving out advice or admonishment to either one of them?

"And what exactly is it you think I'm doing with San?" he had retorted, even going to the extra effort of using proper punctuation and capitalization, just so Quinn couldn't accuse him of being lazy or uneducated or something.

"How cuddly you two are…how just about every picture there is, you're holding onto her or she's sprawled across you, and neither one of you even look drunk. I know you wouldn't do anything to hurt her deliberately, Puck, I know you're a good guy really and you've helped me out and noticed things I was going through when no one else would. I know you don't want to hurt Santana. You might not even be thinking about it, what you two are doing, but…Santana's gay, Puck. Really, really gay. And right now she's been hurt and scared and she's really vulnerable. She might be coming to you for comfort or security but if you use that-"

"Just what the fuck are you saying, Quinn?" Puck hadn't even finished reading the rest of what she had to say, his blood pressure shooting up at this implication. She was saying that he wouldn't hurt her on one hand, and on the other that he was using her?! What the hell right did she have, what the hell did she think she knew or understood about either of them?

"I just don't want her to be hurt, Puck," Quinn had tried to explain. "She might do something with you now that she normally wouldn't, and I don't want to see her regret it because of what she's been through. Or you either. I don't want to see you start to fall for her or think things are different now, and when she realizes what she's doing, she hurts YOU. Can you please just think about it, what I'm saying?"

Puck didn't need to think about it. Well intended as her words might be, they were still so insulting to them that he could barely control his fingers to type a reply.

"I'd never ask her to do ANYTHING she might regret. I'd never do any of that shit with her, not now, not ever, not if she didn't ask or want! You don't know anything about what happened or who we are. Things are different and things have changed and I'm not gonna explain how 'cause you'll never understand. You think all we are is sex and groping and using, you think that's what either one of us is about? I'd never hurt her and she won't hurt me and you don't know anything at all so just keep your damn mouth closed and your lame opinions to yourself."

"I'm not trying to hurt you, Puck," Quinn had repeated, just before Puck signed out entirely. "I'm just trying to keep you both from getting hurt."

Puck had resolved about then to never tell anyone at all any of the details about what had really happened. It definitely seemed to him that no one would really get it, would have way too many opinions that would piss him off way too much, and it was much simpler to let them come up with their own ideas and theories, no matter how lame, rather than give them any sort of actual details and facts to work off of and accurately judge. It seemed to him more dangerous to give them facts to form offensive ideas about rather than to just speculate and be wildly off the mark, so he decided anew that his mouth was keeping shut about it all.

But he had never discussed this resolution with Santana, and it appeared that she had opposite ideas.

He had come home late one night from his new job, Kurt having met him to walk back with him for that particular night, and had not been too surprised to see that the living room was empty, all the bedroom curtains drawn. It was around the time that Rachel would normally go to sleep, after all. But what did stop him in his track was the low murmur of voices he could hear behind her closed curtain, and his realization that it was Santana's voice he could hear, hesitant, soft, but nevertheless the only one speaking.

Puck wasn't trying to listen, not really. Or at least that was what he told himself. But he could hear Santana's voice rise and fall occasionally, just enough so that through the pieces of her words he could pick out, he knew what she was talking about to Rachel, at last. She was telling her about the abduction…she was telling her about her rapes.

Kurt and Rachel knew, of course, what had happened to them, or at least what any newspaper articles they had no doubt sought out had revealed. Puck himself had refused to look or read. He had been assured by the police that his and Santana's names, as victims of a sex crime, would not be revealed publicly and that it would not be public knowledge that they had been made to have sex with each other. Kurt and Rachel knew the bare bones of what had happened, that they had been kidnapped and physically assaulted, that they had been starved and had eventually engineered a trap and their own escape. They knew that it had been terrible for them, that it had been a prostitution ring, and that Santana, at least, had in some way been sexually threatened or assaulted, by her own behavior and their own deductions if nothing else. But he had been sure that they knew nothing more than this, had in fact tried to protect any further information from being revealed to them, as much for their sakes as for his and Santana's. He suspected that their friends, who already struggled so frequently with how to handle what knowledge they did have, could not have coped with any further understanding of just what specifically had occurred during their abduction.

But somehow, something Rachel had done or said or something Santana had decided for herself had lead her to finally breaking her own near silence, and Puck froze in the doorway, part of him fiercely proud of her for her bravery, part of him cringing with dread at the possible repercussions.

Confused, obviously not having made the connections that Puck had, Kurt's eyes roved between him and the curtain, and he opened his mouth to speak, clearly wondering what had Puck remaining so still and affected. "What-" he started, but Puck shushed him with a slashing gesture of his hand and a hurried shake of his head. When the other young man went silent, still frowning at him with confusion, Puck stepped forward slowly, still listening.

He could hear Santana's voice crack almost every time she mentioned his name, how it got just a little higher and louder on occasional, triggering words. She didn't seem to be crying, at least not where Puck could hear, and it took every ounce of his restraint not to walk in on her and sit with her, to check for absolute certain that she was okay. He could just picture her, lying on her back staring up at the ceiling with utter concentration, not allowing herself to blink for fear of letting fall the tears gathered in her eyes. Or maybe she was lying with her back against Rachel, letting the other girl spoon her so she would not have to look into her eyes. He could see Rachel's wide, horrified eyes, her convulsive swallowing and blinking as she struggled not to let loose the emotion that Santana's words were provoking in her. But it wasn't his place nor the time to check on this, so instead he took hold of Kurt's arm and half pulled him into the kitchen, trying to give them the relative privacy they no doubt wanted.

Kurt came easily enough; by then he too had heard enough to figure out the nature of the conversation and wanted very much to ignore it himself. Puck caught him glancing at him several times with conflicted, awkward concern before quickly averting his eyes again.

It was an excruciatingly long twenty minutes or so before Puck could no longer hear even faint murmurs of voices from behind the curtain, and another ten before he could hear the soft, rhythmic rumble of Santana's snoring. The rest of the evening was fairly awkward, with Kurt retreating to his bed and Puck stretched out on the couch, figuring it would be strange for him to sleep alone in Santana's bed- until he was awakened a few hours later by cold hands on his arm, shaking him slightly. Jerking awake, Puck had raised up both hands, half in a defensive gesture, half in preparation to hit out, before he realized that it was only Santana, having slipped out of Rachel's bed to find him.

"Come to bed?" she had whispered, seeming somehow even smaller to him than usual, her eyes glinting in the darkness with an uncertainty that made him smile in spite of himself. "It's freezing and I can't find any socks, so…"

Puck didn't point out that this excuse for coming to him made no sense; she had, after all, been sharing a bed with Rachel, who not only had plenty of warm, fuzzy socks to lend, but also was a warm body herself to curl up to. Instead he simply sat up, stretching, and shuffled with her to her- pretty much their- bed, rolling onto his side to face her, and he was not surprised when she curled her back against his chest, pulling his arms around her.

"I told Rachel," she said to him after a while, her words muffled into his back.

Puck didn't pretend that he didn't know what she was talking about. If Santana didn't already know he knew, then she could at least guess that he would be able to piece it together, so he simply took her hand in his, rubbing his thumb over its back as he replied.

"She freak out?"

"Not really," Santana murmured back, exhaling. He felt her knees press into the back of his, bony knobs that always amazed him in their smallness. "I could tell she wanted to, but she kept it together. Guess she's gaining some acting skills in that drama school of hers."

Puck chuckled slightly, but he was listening to Santana's tone, more than her words. He felt her shifting against him again, moving even closer, and squeezed her hand, waiting for her to make another comment. When she didn't, he asked a question of his own.

"San…you okay with her knowing, now that she does? What made you tell her anyway?"

"What, you wanted me not to?" Santana asked, drawing her face back from him. Puck could tell that she was trying to get a glimpse of his, but she would have to half drape herself over his side to manage.

"Nah, I don't care. I mean, I do, but…if you wanna tell her then I guess it's cool, it's your story."

"It's your story too, Puck," Santana told him quietly, her voice soft but meaningful. "Not just mine. Ours."

Puck couldn't argue with that, even if he didn't exactly want to talk about it. Going quiet, he simply shrugged, asking her his question again.

"What made you want to tell her all of a sudden?"

"Well for one thing, she never asks anything," Santana explained, her voice still soft, thoughtful in tone now, as though she was puzzling through the reasons for herself. "And for Rachel that takes a supreme amount of will when she's just dying to know something. But she didn't ask or shoot out her theories at me or even overly smother me when I told her to leave me alone. You know? And she does the stupid, weird little things I ask her to if I need it, and she sits with me at night and doesn't yell at me when I make her take all the guys's orders at the diner or go disappear into the bathroom for fifteen minutes at a time. I don't know…we kinda ask a lot of her, Puck, without letting her understand why. So I sort of wanted to let her understand a little."

She sighed, squeezing his hands, still almost whispering her response to him. "I'd tell Kurt too except it would be way harder, lady lips or not. And anyway, anything I tell Rachel is gonna be blowing up Kurt's ear within twenty seconds, we both know that. Might as well save my breath."

What Santana was saying made sense to Puck. It was generous too, in a way he hadn't quite expected from her. It couldn't have been easy for her to talk to Rachel, but she was doing it as a favor to her, to be fair to her, and he could respect that, if not totally feel comfortable with it.

"Well, if you're cool with it…and if you're okay…" he replied, to which he felt Santana nod, her forehead pressed again between his shoulder blades.

"Yeah…I'm okay. Sort of feel like I needed to say it out loud in some ways, if that makes any sense. Like, obviously it's real but it's something we never really talk about, not…like the actual words of it, you know? We dance around and we know what we mean and we never actually say it. So it was hard but…sort of okay."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Puck asked, even as he felt his entire body tense up at the very thought of it. "Like with words, like you said?"

He didn't' realize he was holding his breath until he felt it release out when Santana shook her head again.

"No. That was enough. Way more than enough."

They let their words fade out there, with Puck feeling Santana drift off, growing heavier against his back, and heard her snoring begin anew before he himself could sleep. In the morning, Rachel didn't just greet him good morning, but hugged him long and fiercely with misty eyes that made him highly uncomfortable, knowing exactly what had changed her response to him. When he walked in on Kurt in the bathroom, instead of squealing at him and covering up, as he normally would, Kurt had apologized to him and gotten very red and uncomfortable-looking, not quite meeting Puck's eyes. When Puck caught the look of pity in his eyes and the way Kurt's lower lip caught between his teeth as Puck made himself coffee, Puck knew- and wasn't exactly happy- that Rachel had already told him too.

If it had ended there, then Puck would have been able to sort of be okay with it. It was Santana's decision, and she had a point in saying they were roommates and had put up with a lot from them both to have at least some knowledge of why they had to do what they were being asked to. It would have still grated on his nerves and tried his pride and patience, but from just Kurt and Rachel, it would have been tolerable.

But Santana had obviously not thought of the fact that Rachel's mouth could be unstoppable and Kurt was a huge gossip who was still very friendly with Tina and Mercedes, who also happened to enjoy spreading around any juicy stories that might come their way. It didn't take long for Puck to start suddenly getting texts and Facebook messages and phone calls again, few outright spelling out the reasons why for their sudden renewed interest and sympathy for him, but none were at all subtle about disguising it either. By the time Puck had gotten texts from ARTIE, of all people, wanting to know if he was okay, he had completely had it.

"What the hell did you go tell the whole world what Santana told you?" he hissed at his two apparently oblivious roommates the second they were both home while Santana was in the bathroom, aware that his fists were unconsciously balling at his sides but doing nothing to try to relax them. "She told you in confidence, so YOU would know, she didn't say to put out a damn broadcast over it!"

"We didn't put out a broadcast, we just told a few close friends- just so they would understand too," Kurt tried, blinking, and Puck noticed him taking a few steps back, his hands lifting slowly, as though preparing to duck and protect himself if needed. He didn't need to look in the mirror to know how scary his expression must look to trigger that kind of response, because his own anger, steadily pressing harder and harder against his chest and running with increasing heat through his veins, gave him an inkling. "We didn't think she would mind if they all get it now…and they aren't going to say anything-"

"She told you, not them, there was a damn reason for that! And they're saying a whole hell of a lot of things, I can't turn around without tripping over someone trying to talk about it to me, so what the hell do you think they're doing to her? You better be damn glad she doesn't get on Facebook or hardly check her phone anymore!" Puck hissed, noting and not caring when Kurt and Rachel exchanged frantic glances, Rachel swallowing hard before addressing him.

"Noah, I just, I wanted to help. I thought that if everyone knew where you both were coming from then they could be more sensitive and considerate, you know that everyone just wants to express their sympathy and-"

"They did that weeks ago when they first figured out we were kidnapped, they really need more reasons to start all over again? They gotta talk about it when they still don't know shit, they're hearing a third or fourth hand account that someone probably twisted up or exaggerated or left important shit out of over time? You think hearing from five different people what might or might not have been true is gonna help us out, you think it's gonna make things better? I thought you were supposed to be the near genius, Rachel, how are you being so dumb?"

Rachel didn't have a chance to answer then, because Santana emerged from the bathroom, and as pissed off as he was, Puck didn't want to draw her into it too if she didn't have to be. He got through most of the rest of the evening stewing silently, ignoring even Santana. But it was a visit from Sam Evans that finally pushed him past his boiling point.

Puck hadn't been sure how, exactly, it had come about that Sam was visiting at all. He didn't think that Kurt or Rachel would have invited him, since as far as he knew, neither was especially close with him. Nor was Santana. Sure, they were all friendly and part of an extended family of sorts, but Sam was closer to Tina, Artie, and Blaine, and of course Mercedes. It was never made clear to him how, exactly, Sam had ended up walking through their front door, and maybe he had decided to come up himself on a whim. Maybe he had been sent out as a scout of sorts by the other Glee kids, someone to confirm, in his nonthreatening, sort of clueless manner, the truth of what exactly was going on between everyone up and New York City. Given the raging curiosity of the others, Puck wouldn't have been surprised.

Things went pretty well at first; they all had a pleasant enough time interacting, and it was one of Santana's good days, with her being fairly social and even snarky, accepting a hug from Sam with only momentary hesitation, even if she did back quickly away. Puck was glad to see that she seemed actually happy to see him, that she laughed and smiled along with everyone else- but he didn't fail to notice Sam stealing furtive, not so subtle looks at her, and sometimes himself as well. It left him somewhat on guard, ready to step in to interrupt him, head off an uncomfortable conversation, or outright defend Santana if needed from anything he might thoughtlessly blurt out. But as it turned out, as little sense as Sam had, he did at least have enough to wait until Santana was removing her makeup for the night in the bathroom before turning to Puck and making the comments he seemed to have been holding in all night.

"So…I heard from Mercedes about what happened," he blurted, running a hand through his hair, shaking his head as his generous mouth drew into an awkward but sympathetic grimace. "That really sucks, like, about the guns and stuff. But I was thinking, you know, it could have totally been worse. I mean, the other guys with her, that's really, really bad, and I hate to think about that…I'm not gonna say anything to her about that because that's just…I just don't even want to think about it. But with you two, that has to be kind of better, right? One of those other hooker girls, they could have given you diseases or whatever, you know? Santana's hot and pretty good in bed, and it's not like you guys haven't had sex before. So it wasn't anything new, just sort of embarrassing, I guess. Especially since she's a lesbian now. So, you know, good thing it wasn't that bad at least with that part of it."

Sam's words were obviously intended to be his effort at connecting with Puck, empathizing or sympathizing, maybe even an effort to show he understood. The problem was, of course, that he didn't understand, not at all, not one tiny aspect of one tiny second of what had actually gone down. And as he stood there, his eyes wide and earnest, no doubt expecting some sort of acceptance or acknowledgement from Puck, all Puck wanted to do in that moment was beat that look out of his eyes, use his fists to make a physical as well as mental impact on just how wrong he really was.

"Oh god," he heard Kurt stage whisper from behind him, the horror in his voice obvious. "Oh Sam, no you didn't…"

"Noah, no," he heard Rachel's urgent whisper, and he felt a small, insistent hang grab at his inner elbow, trying to tug him back. "He doesn't know what he's saying, Noah, please don't do something stupid-"

But Puck could not have listened to her if he wanted to; the only sound he could focus on then was the sound of his own temples pulsing with his rage, his blood pumping too rapidly through his veins, his heart pounding almost beyond control against his chest. With one rough gesture he shook Rachel off of him and seized Sam's upper arms, propelling him backward so that both nearly stumbled over the coffee table. He shoved him back so that Sam fell back against the couch and continued to lean over him, gripping him, his entire body hovered over the younger man as he pushed his face close to his.

"He doesn't know what he's saying? He doesn't know what it was like? I'm about to show him."

And with that his fist shot out, nailing Sam in the upper cheekbone. He didn't give the man much time to react before he was hitting him again, in the side, in the upper arm, barely feeling his knuckles skin as they met bone. Sam was yelling out hoarsely, trying to defend his face, to shove himself up and away from Puck, Puck could hear Kurt and Rachel shrieking at him even as they kept a prudent, helpless distance, and over it all he was yelling, having completely loss a sense of where he was and what he was doing. There was nothing there in that moment to him but himself and Sam, surrounded by Sam's ignorant words, and the only option seemed to be to hurt him for them, to make him know even a small piece of the hurt they had felt.

"You- don't- know- shit! Think I LIKED it- think it was FUN- think I could think of one fucking THING about how she LOOKS- bruised up and fucking CRYING- fucking SICK, you're fucking SICK- think I'm like you- think I'm like THEM-"

"Noah, that isn't what he meant! Noah, stop- stop!"

"Puck, he's BLEEDING! Stop it, STOP IT!"

"I'm sorry! Man, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"

But it wasn't any of their voices that got through to him, or that mattered to him at all. It was Santana's, softer, but no less urgent, that finally stopped his fists mid air.

"Puck…don't. Don't."

Puck's arms stopped their motions abruptly, then fell heavily to his sides. Chest heaving, he turned his head in her direction, taking several gulping breaths, and his lips pressed tightly together as he swallowed. He could feel his muscles twitching with the urge to keep hitting out, to keep hitting Sam, but he made himself remain still, looking to Santana.

She was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, her thin fingers gripping the side of the door, her eyes locked on Puck, her expression very serious, almost grim, and yet her eyes were soft with understanding. She took a few steps forward, then held out her hand to Puck, waiting without words for him to take it.

Puck didn't look down at Sam, who was still stammering an apology he couldn't quite understand. He didn't see his bloodied lip or bruising cheekbone, his uneven breaths or the fear in his eyes. He didn't look to the shaken Kurt or Rachel, clutching each other with whitened fingers several feet away. He looked only to Santana, and with shaking legs, walked towards her, letting her wrap her fingers tightly around his and draw him in.

When she led him into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him, Puck followed numbly, almost mindless as to what was happening. He didn't realize he was speaking to her until he was halfway through his sentences, and even then he barely understood his own words.

"Wasn't like that…I would never…I never liked it…was never okay…NEVER…"

"Shh," Santana said, and though he heard her swallow, taking in a deep breath, her hands nevertheless stroked over his arms, her thumbs rubbing circles into his skin. "Shh. Don't say anything else, okay? I know. I know. Shh."

But Puck couldn't stop talking. He was almost sobbing the words now, needing them to be said, needing so badly for her to know, to understand.

"I never…Santana, I never wanted…not for a minute, not for a second…it's not…it wasn't…I need you to know…I'm not like them. I'm not, I was never…I'm not like them…"

"Oh, Puck," she murmured back, and suddenly she was pulling him in, guiding his head down, pressing his face into her shoulder as she cupped the back of his head. She was smaller than him, and the gesture was awkward, but she held on, her body swaying slightly as she tightened her arm around his back. "I know. Don't ever say that again…don't, because that's…it's fucking insulting, okay? Not to me, but to you. I know. I know."

It was almost an exact repeat of the incident from only the week before, the watching of Les Miserables in his presence by their roommates, that they had all tiptoed around since. Puck was dimly aware of this, suspected that it had meaning of some kind he was too tired and too spent emotionally to try to figure out. But for now he simply slowly let himself accept her words, her supportive arms, and the words whispered into his ear, caressed into his skin.


	11. Fault

Puck knew that his anger was getting worse lately.

He had always had a temper, of course. From kindergarten, where he would hit the other little boys to get their toys or an extra pudding, to high school, where he got suspended a minimum of two or three times a year for fighting, Puck had never quite been able to totally rein in his mouth or keep down his fists when someone or something pissed him off. It was usually the first solution to a problem with a guy that came to his mind, and it was usually the first action he tried to take to solve it.

It never had taken much to provoke his anger, but he had noticed- and tried to forget- over time that his greatest rages were generally stirred up by feeling hurt. By being ignored or rejected, by being put down or treated injustly, by being main to feel as though he were nothing or worse than nothing, a loser that was not worth any effort or time. With his reputation as a troublemaker, a punk, a class clown, and an overall Lima Loser, this had happened often enough that Puck had walked around defensive, ready to snap out at or fight against anyone who so much as looked towards him in a challenging manner.

The worst part about it was that as much as he fought against it and reacted vehemently in opposition to anything those kind of people did or said, secretly, Puck thought they were usually right. And that was what drove the anger up further, what made him lash out more- because how could he let them see that, how could he ever let them know he agreed?

But even more than with himself, his anger had always been set off by anyone doing wrong against one of his girls. If Puck felt that one of his Glee girls was being treated badly or had been hurt by someone, he would move the earth, or at least punch in a line of faces, to make it right, or at least to make someone else feel worse. And hopefully, at least for the second it took for his fist to connect to their skin, he would feel a little better.

None of this had changed, except that now, the majority of his anger, and the speed in which it was set off, was connected directly to Santana. It could still be provoked by anything- trivial things, like spoiled, entitled customers at work, blaming him for mishaps he had little control over, waiting in line for stupid reasons, getting stuck in traffic, losing his keys. But when it came to things that in some roundabout way connected to Santana, like violent or sexy movies, people catcalling on the street, or people making comments about prostitutes or casually sleeping with girls, Puck's usually repressed anger shot immediately to the surface. And if someone directly hurt Santana in any way, even accidentally- well, they better be able to run fast or duck, because Puck would almost certainly be coming after them.

He tried not to think about why this had intensified so much for him, but a part of him knew deep down that he was not being entirely reasonable. It was overcompensation, his ineffective way of trying to make up for what he had not been able to do before- his way to try to fix things, to try to save and protect Santana as he had not been able to when it really mattered. It was not possible, for he couldn't go back in time and give himself abilities he had never had, but he tried now in every way to undo and make up for the impossible.

At least the stupid comments from their friends and acquaintances had stopped, Sam's injured face seeming to be a deterrent from any further open curiosity. But although no one was approaching them, it seemed that some just couldn't seem to stop pushing the limits.

When the package arrived, addressed to Santana, Puck was the only one home to receive it. His three roommates all working at the diner, not expected home for another half hour or so, so he had taken the box in with some bemusement, wondering what it could be. It was sort of heavy, about the size of a large shirt box, and addressed to Santana- from Mr. Shue.

It didn't make a lot of sense to Puck, and he frowned down at it, his curiosity definitely invoked. What would Mr. Shue be sending Santana in a large box? A former costume? Why the hell would he think she would want that now? Some kind of prop they had used in a performance in high school?

Puck hadn't hesitated long before deciding to open it. He could always excuse it away by saying he didn't bother to read who it was addressed to- he was the most plausible person of the four to do such a thing and have it actually be true, after all.

Once the scissors had torn through the packaging tape and the box's flaps had been lifted, Puck simply stared, unable at first, or perhaps simply unwilling, to recognize what lay inside. But as his hands moved forward, slowly lifting out the garment, feeling its familiar texture, he couldn't deny what he was now holding in his hands. A letterman's jacket, a WMHS letterman's jacket. A very large one, with very long sleeves.

Finn's jacket.

Puck was barely aware of his hands shaking, of his throat working as he swallowed several times, pressing his lips into a thin line. It made no sense…how could Mr. Shue have gotten hold of the jacket somehow, lost months ago? Had someone finally turned it into him, whoever had taken it from Santana in the first place? Had he found it discarded somewhere in the school?

He fought an urge to clutch it to his chest, to bury his face in it and take slow, steadying breaths, as memories of Finn swept over him. Instead he tried to tell himself how much Santana would love this, how much it would mean to her to have it back after all this time. He tried to smile, thinking of her expression when he handed it to her.

And then he saw the letter to Santana, at the bottom of the box. It wasn't in an envelope or even folded; it was written in a shaky hand on a single piece of notebook paper. It wasn't his business what it said, and it wasn't his place to read it. But Puck nevertheless couldn't stop himself from picking it up and holding it closer to do exactly that.

Dear Santana,

I want first of all to express to you just how sorry I am to hear of what you and Puck have been through this year. It must have been a terrible ordeal and we are all so grateful to have you both safe again. I know you both are incredibly strong and I want you to know that you are cherished and missed. You are an amazing, intelligent, talented young woman and I know that your strength of heart and spirit will get you exactly where you want to go even after such a trial.

But I have another apology to make to you as well, Santana, one much more personal, and I suppose to Puck as well. I owe you this jacket, and I owe you my apology. When I took this jacket, I was grieving and trying so hard to stop myself from doing so. I was losing my best friend and didn't know how to conduct myself in my grief. I felt that I had nothing left of Finn to hold onto, and most of all, I didn't feel that I had the strength and courage that all the rest of you do. I needed Finn's jacket, as terrible as it sounds, so I could feel that a piece of him still remained with me, and I'm ashamed to say that I didn't think or care that perhaps you felt the same way.

I fooled myself into believing that Finn would want me to have the jacket, that he would understand. I still believe he would understand, but I know now he would be disappointed, and he would believe that the jacket should go to you, as Kurt instructed and intended. Again I apologize for my selfishness, and for allowing Puck to be blamed for my actions. I'm returning the jacket to you now for you to do with as you want or need. I understand if you can't forgive me for this but I hope this will not be the case, that eventually you can have the grace to forgive me.

I love you Santana, I hope you do know that, and I wish you well. If you want to call me or talk to me for any reason, whether to yell your best Spanish insults (you know I won't understand them anyway) or for something more civil, I welcome it. Know that whatever you choose I will always wish you well and love and be proud of the woman I've watched and hopefully in some part helped you to become.

Love,

Mr. Shue

For several seconds after Puck had read the letter he stared down at it, trying to make sense of its words. He had to read it again, then again, and still he struggled to process exactly what it was saying to him. By the time he had processed that yes, he had interpreted its contents correctly, he had read over the letter four or five times.

Hands shaking, Puck let it drop to the floor. It had barely hit the ground before his thoughts exploded outward in a course of action, driving him onward.

This had all started because of him, because of William Shuester. He had started it all. The reason Santana and Puck had been arguing that night had been because of the missing jacket, because Santana had been convinced he had taken it- and because Mr. Shue had done nothing to stop her from thinking otherwise, and had in fact encouraged her to think as such. It was right there in black and white, his confession. He hadn't cared what his lie would do to Puck's and Santana's friendship, or how everyone in Glee would think that Puck was not only a liar but a thief. That he would take away something so important from Santana, whether or not he thought she deserved to be the one to have it, when Finn's own brother had designated that it was hers.

He hadn't cared at all. He was supposed to be their teacher, their role model, the one who taught them how to behave and did right by them himself, who never disappointed them or let them down. He was supposed to be the one with all the answers about the right thing to do and the right kind of person to be, and he had spent the last four years lecturing Puck on more than one occasion on times where he had messed up.

And yet he took- no, not took, stole, fucking STOLE Finn's jacket from Santana, while she slept in the damn nurse's office, no less. He stole it, let Puck take the blame, and so provoked the fight that had eventually lead to their captivity.

His actions had started everything. In this one minute in time, Puck had a new person to blame for everything that had been done to them, everything he had been forced to do, and he simply could not handle this knowledge.

He stepped on the letter, kicking at it and stomping on it repeatedly until it tore in half. Then his aggression expanded out to include other items, and as he got increasingly angry, it seemed to him necessary for nearly every object in his path to become subject to his wrath.

Puck kicked the couch several times, then seized the pillows off it, flinging them across the room to hit the wall. Next he swiped his arm over the coffee table, sending papers and an unlit candle, as well as the TV remote, flying, and kicked the resulting pile on the floor for good measure. The coffee table overturned, the armchair received several kicks and punches with his fist, and when he ran out of room the kitchen provided plenty of kicking and overturning opportunities with the tables and chairs. Still his rage only seemed to increase with every physical action he tried to bleed it out through, and by the time Kurt and Rachel arrived home shortly after he had started, with Santana in tow, he was breathing hard, his entire body shaking visibly, and the kitchen and living room were considerably more cluttered and torn apart than they had been before.

"What the- Puck, what are you DOING?" Kurt blurted, his voice high in pitch and rather incredulous. "You're tearing apart the whole house!"

"Are you…Noah, are you looking for something?" Rachel seemed to be trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for the apartment's near destruction, her eyes darting from Puck to the overturned furniture, anxiety and stress clearly stretching itself over her features. He could almost see her mentally calculating the price and possible damage of everything he had touched. "Because you certainly could have waited until we were home to assist you, or even text us to see if we knew where it was, it's certainly not efficient or cost productive to tear apart the entire home to look for one missing object-"

But Puck was in no kind of mood to hear anything approaching a lecture or criticism from either one of them. His jaw jutting forward aggressively, he jabbed his index finger first at Kurt, then at Rachel, his voice loud and heated as he spoke to them both.

"It's you too, both of you. This all fucking started because of all of YOU. Not me…all this time, I thought me, my fault, but it's YOURS, all of YOU!"

"What?" Kurt sputtered, his eyes widening, almost bulging as he looked between Puck and Rachel, incredulous, even throwing a glance back at Santana, where she lingered by the doorway, apprehensive, still, her eyes glued to Puck. "Puck, what are you talking about? Are you drunk?"

"Yeah, blame it all on me, it's all Puck's fault, always, isn't that the rule around here? No one does shit except Puck, so let's blame all the shit we do on him!" Puck snapped back at him, taking a wild, sweeping gesture to encompass him again as he aimed another kick at the couch.

As Kurt flinched, taking a step back, Rachel bit her lower lip, trying to soften her voice as she addressed Puck, but they could all hear the slight shaking undertone even as she fixed earnest eyes his way.

"Noah…you're obviously very upset and none of us are quite sure why. If you could tell us what is going on rather than shouting at us and taking out your feelings on inanimate and quite expensive items, it would be greatly preferable."

"Not sure why? How the hell have you not figured out by now that it's YOUR damn fault? Oh, right, that's because in the world of Rachel Berry and Kurt Hummel, such a thing isn't possible, in the world of everyone in the whole damn universe, the only person who could ever be wrong is Noah Eli Puckerman! Let's all blame it on Puck, he'll take the fall! He's the dumbass Lima Loser who ain't gonna know the difference anyway! It's all on Puck, folks, everything, every fucking thing can be Puck's fault, and you know what, we can make him actually BELIEVE that because he's that damn stupid!"

"Noah, no one thinks that, no one thinks you're stupid," Rachel tried to reason with him, but Kurt was having one of it. Exhaling loudly, he crossed his arms, beginning to take on an attitude of his own.

"Except that right now he is being stupid, Rachel. No one gets a free pass on wrecking their home and yelling at their friends because he got pissed off and it's about time people start to learn that around here. Puck, just get to the point and say whatever it is you have to say, because no one wants or deserves to be your punching bag because words are just too hard."

"Oh, you want me to say it, you want me to use words?" Puck's voice rose still louder, and he again jabbed his finger at Kurt, taking the bait. "Okay, here's the words, Kurt, it's your fucking fault, yours and hers," as his finger jabbed again at Rachel, including her. "You told me to leave the house that night, you ORDERED us out, in the middle of the night, in New York fucking City, just because we were fucking ARGUING you think that warrants us being in danger of our lives so YOU can be more comfortable! And YOU-" he turned on Rachel- "dating a fucking HOOKER! How fucking blind are you, how stupid are you that you don't know your fuck buddy is a damn gigolo?! Not listening to Santana- kicking her out of your damn house when she didn't have anywhere to go- making her have to call Finn up and have him come work him over so he KNOWS who the hell arranged it, so he knows exactly who the hell was responsible for him losing you and losing who the hell knows how much money from customers until he healed up, you realize he probably was grooming you to be one of their girls? You realize you could have been the one getting needles jabbed in your neck and drugs in your drinks and getting felt up and beat down and filmed and FUCKED every day?! You had too damn much pride, you thought you were too damn smart to fucking listen to Santana when you know WHEN is the last damn time she ever lied to you, she tells you the truth you're too selfish to hear! You can't take the heat, either one of you, you and YOUR damn comfort fucking near destroyed us! Do you not understand that? Do you not understand one damn thing about what you did?!"

He turned away from them then, unable to look at them, to see their shock or hurt or worse, their pity. He didn't want to be near any of them, not even Santana- maybe especially not Santana. He wanted every single one of them to leave the loft, or maybe to simply stalk out the door himself. But that would be violating their new rules, leaving himself alone and vulnerable to possible attack, and even as agitated as he was, Puck still knew by his own learned instinct not to break that particular rule.

He could hear Rachel's voice addressing him, soft, stricken, a little shaky, and he was determined not to look at her, no matter how many times she said his name, no matter how pleading she sounded. But what the hell was she saying?

"Noah…Noah…we're sorry…Noah, please don't cry, please…"

"The fuck?" Puck muttered, honestly perplexed by her words. "I'm not crying…the hell…"

Just to make sure, he lifted his fingertips to his face, touching beneath his eyes, and was shocked to discover that there was in fact dampness gathered beneath. His forehead creasing, he prodded his cheekbones, note quite convinced that what Rachel had observed was actually true. He swiped the back of his hand roughly over his cheeks, shaking his head, even as he felt more dampness seep against his fingers.

"I'm not crying," he denied, despite the evidence to the contrary. "Stop it…shut up. I'm not crying."

"Puck," Kurt said, equally softly. Puck heard him take a step forward and then stop, as though unsure of how or when to proceed. "Puck…"

In all this confusion and emotional upheaval, no one had noticed the discarded package kicked beneath the coffee table, nor the jacket thrown back over it. It was Santana out of the three late arrivals who first saw it, her eyes drifting down to the floor and noting the long sleeve sticking out from beneath. Frowning, she came forward slowly, not intending to be approaching Puck, but rather the object she was spotting near him. Kneeling, she stretched out her hand, pulling it free from beneath the table, and as it became more apparent to her what it was that she was now touching, she sucked in her breath, her grip tightening on its sleeve, but she didn't at first pull it all the way out for everyone's inspection.

"Santana, what-" Kurt started, but she shook her head at him, slowly inching the jacket out from beneath the coffee table, as though fearing that if she took it too quickly, it would suddenly turn into something else or possibly disappear straight out of her hand. Once she had it in both hands, she held it up, sucking in her breath, and simply stared at it, her thumbs carefully stroking over the material at his shoulders.

Behind her, Kurt and Rachel gasped as they too realized what it was she was holding, and their eyes quickly turned to Puck, no doubt coming to the conclusion that he had in fact taken the jacket, all those months ago, and was only now revealing the fact. But Santana knew better. carefully transferring the jacket over to one arm, hugging it to her almost like a person rather than an article of clothing, she reaches for the torn letter beside it, picking it up and holding it in one hand in such a way that its writing was legible. Squinting, she read it silently, her lips moving with each word, then let the letter drop back to the ground. Still holding the jacket with one arm, she used the toe of her foot to hold the letter steady as she ripped it again, then again, with her hand, her jaw clinched, eyes dark and narrowed with anger.

Puck watched her, swallowing repeatedly against a lump in his throat he denied to himself fiercely existed at all. He was dimly aware of Rachel and Kurt watching too, completely confused and trying to piece everything together, and he ignored them, his eyes only on Santana.

She stared at the torn letter on the ground for several moments, and he saw that her chin was quivering slightly. Then she took in another deep breath, lifted it high, and raised her eyes to his, holding his gaze.

She didn't speak to him. She simply stood, coming closer to him, and taking the jacket, reached up to wrap it gently around Puck's shoulders. As its weight settled around him, almost an embrace of sorts, Santana wrapped her own arms around his waist, leaning her cheek into his back.

She didn't tell him to apologize to Kurt and Rachel; she didn't tell him that she was sorry, or that she understood, or any other useless, meaningless words that he already knew without needing to hear them spoken. She simply hugged him, Finn's jacket in between, making contact with them both, as Puck's head bowed forward, slow tears now definitely tracking down his cheeks.


	12. Music

I do not own the lyrics listed here; they are owned by Fiona Apple, Pink, Korn/Evanescence, Garbage, Tori Amos, Marry Me Jane, Plumb.

The apartment didn't have closets; everyone had to make do with folding their clothes into drawers, hanging them on short, portable clothes bars, or in Puck's case, wadding them up haphazardly in a few boxes and shoving them under Santana's bed. It was this lack of space that meant that on her bad days, Santana tended to sit in the corner of her curtained off bedroom area, her back pressed against the wall, knees drawn up to her chest, eyes tightly closed as she blocked out the rest of the world, earbuds stuck in her ears while she listened to her Ipod play.

The first few times Puck had witnessed this, he had been immediately concerned and headed straight to her, putting his face close to hers and talking to her, actually trying to remove the earbuds from her ears to make her hear. Santana had reacted with such sudden violence, shrieking in genuine shock and fear and hitting out at him frantically, not seeming to see who he was at all, that he had been forced to retreat, hands up over his face, repeatedly reminding her of who he was and where she was. She had been so shaken he had never tried this again. He had instead tried to softly get her attention, the next several times, and soon realized that anything short of physical contact and removing the earbuds would not be noticed or recognized by her when she was in this state. Her concentration on the music and her own feelings, her ability to block out all else, was so strong that she simply didn't see or hear anything else around her.

Instead, he had taken to coming to sit beside her, close, but not quite touching, just enough so that if she did happen to shake herself out of it, she could easily reach him and guide his comfort of her however she wished to receive. He would sit with her and hum to himself as much as to her, passing the time, and whenever she finally chose to reemerge, he would let her set the pace to indicate what she wanted or needed.

Puck hated to see her this way. He hated watching herself fold herself up as small as she could, as though she wished to press herself into the corner so tightly she disappeared entirely. He hated to see her so startled at anyone's touch, ready to fight or run for cover at even a brush of her arm. He hated the tautness of her features and the small wrinkle that creased her eyelids when she closed them so tightly to block out the world. He hated most of all that almost every time, she would start to cry without even seeming to realize it, almost silently, tears dripping down her chin and seeping through to her chest, and that he could not, was not allowed, to reach out and comfort her.

Afterward, when she was finished, she would normally ignore him for at least another five or ten minutes, not wanting him to help her up off the floor or cuddle her to his chest, no matter how long she had been motionless in that corner or how steadily she had been crying. She would get to her feet with pained stiffness, swiping her hands over her cheeks, and turn the Ipod off, securing it inside the drawer of her nightstand before going about the rest of her day. Every time, Puck wondered what it was she was listening to on there, if she had a specific song or songs, or if she was simply listening at random until she could calm down, but he couldn't figure out how to ask, and Santana never volunteered the answer.

But one evening, his curiosity got the better of him, and he decided to find out on his own.

Santana hadn't remained in the corner for very long that particular night. Puck only had to sit with her for about five minutes after he had found her before she got up and placed the Ipod in the drawer as she always did, getting up and disappearing into the bathroom. He heard the shower running a few minutes later, and without quite realizing at first what he had intended to do, he went to the drawer and pulled it open, taking her Ipod out into his hand.

He still wasn't quite sure what he was doing holding it, looking at it, until he realized that Santana had not actually shut it off all the way. A song was still playing, and when Puck looked down at it, he saw that it was one of a whole playlist, which was entitled "."

Curious, and more than a little drawn to attempting to discover whether this was in fact the answer to his questions, Puck looked around himself quickly, noting that he could still hear the shower going, and it would be some time, most likely, before Santana emerged again. With only a small twinge of discomfort that wasn't quite full on guilt, he slipped the buds into his ears, listening.

The song that she had been listening to was winding down to an end, and he saw that it was entitled "Sullen Girl" by Fiona Apple. The singer's voice was deep, melancholy, and he listened, intrigued.

"Is that why they call me a sullen girl, sullen girl, they don't know how I used to sail the deep and tranquil sea, but it washed me ashore and it took my pearl, and left an empty shell of me…"

Puck frowned, somewhat uncomfortable by the obvious mournfulness of the song, but not quite understanding what it was going on about. He skipped ahead to the next track on the CD and saw that it too was a song entitled "Limp" by the same singer, Fiona Apple.

"You wanna make me sick you wanna lick my wounds, don't you baby….and when I think of it, my fingers turn to fists. I never did anything to you, man…no matter what I try you beat me with your bitter lies, so call me crazy hold me down make me cry, get off now, baby…it won't be long til you'll be lying limp in your own hands…"

Puck's eyes widened at those lyrics, and he goggled at the screen, quickly jabbing his finger to switch past the song. It made him highly uncomfortable to hear those particular words, and he couldn't for the life of him imagine why Santana would want to either.

The next song was by Creed, and he smirked to himself, highly amused by what he saw her very geeky song choice- until he heard the lyrics opening up to the song, "Wash away those years."

"She came calling one early morning, she showed her crown of thorns, she whispered softly to tell her story about how she had been wronged. As she lay lifeless, he stole her innocence, and this is how she carried on…"

A chill shuddered then down his spine, and his finger was a little slower to jab forward to the next song. Puck swallowed hard, a sneaking suspicion already coming over him, as the next song, "Long way to happy" by Pink, came on.

"One night to you lasted six weeks for me, just a bitter little pill now, just to try to go to sleep, no more waking up to innocence, say hello to hesitance to everyone I meet…thanks to you, years ago, I guess I'll never know, what love means to me….left my childhood behind in a rollaway bed, everything was so damn simple but now I'm losing my head…trying to cover up the damage, and pat out all the bruises, to young to know I had it so it didn't hurt to lose it-"

This was too much. This could not possibly be every song on this damn list, could it be…they couldn't all be about THAT. She wouldn't pour through god knows how many songs she owned, deliberately selecting every single one that had the same common, all too familiar theme, and stick them on a playlist…she wouldn't sit to listen to them all in a row, every time she was feeling particularly bad.

She couldn't. But as Puck flipped through the songs with increasing speed, this seemed more and more clearly the case.

Tori Amos, "Me and a Gun." "It's me and a gun, and a man on my back, and I sang holy holy as he buttoned down his pants…yes I wore a slinky red thing but does that mean that I should spread for you, your friend, your father, Mr. Ed?"

A cover of Korn's "Thoughtless" by Evanescence. "Wanna kill and rape you the way you raped me…pull the trigger and you're down, down, down…"

Garbage, "Silence is golden." "Silence is golden, I have been broken, safe in my own skin so nobody wins…"

Some band called Marry Me Jane, "Faithless." "Your fingers nullify my skin, am I still your creepy sister, I hesitate, then I take you in…he leads me down to the basement, he waits until no one can hear, he leaves me shattered, shaken…"

Paula Cole, "She can't feel anything." "She was on the floor, her face was in her mother's arms…she had said she had been out late with a boy…just another evening, like every other evening, everything is all the same it seems…feel the beaded knuckles, feel the snap inside, see the rush of terror in her eyes…"

Plumb, "Damaged." "There's demanding for my soul, an ending to this fear, forgiveness for a man who was stronger, 'cause I was just a little girl and I can't go back…"

He couldn't do it. He couldn't listen to it, not one more song. Tearing the earbuds out of his ears, Puck violently switched the music off, almost throwing it back into the dresser drawer. One hand rising up to cover his mouth, he lowered his head, feeling a barely suppressed sob shuddering up and down his spine. Tears stung hotly behind his eyes, and he shook his head, trying to force down the emotion swelling in his chest in response to what he had just began to understand.

He thought about Santana then, sitting so still, weeping so silently, refusing any comfort or acknowledgement from anyone as she listened to these words, to these sorrowful voices all singing about what she herself had been through, voicing the story of other women who had also been violated. He thought of Santana soaking this up, memorizing, immersing herself in mutual sorrow, and he couldn't keep back his own tears.

For another five or ten minutes he remained hunched over, head lowered, hand tightly clamped over his mouth as he tried to force back any noise that might come forth from his crying, to keep anyone from hearing and investigating its source. Only when he heard the shower shutting off and knew that Santana would be re-entering the room was he able to hurriedly pull himself together, sniffling and harshly scrubbing at his face with both hands.

That evening when Santana lay down in bed with him, eyes closed, body relaxed, her back pressed into his chest, Puck listened to her drifting off to sleep, and felt strong temptation to simply reach out and take her Ipod from the drawer, to go through and erase every song off the playlist, so she could no longer hear. But instead he tightened his arms around her, buried his nose in her hair, and very softly sang to her instead, even though he was fairly sure she could not hear. Songs of hope and happiness, songs of love and faith and trust. Anything he could think of to replace the sadness of her own music, anything he could think of to reflect the feelings he wanted so badly for her to feel instead.


	13. Flu

Flu

For the third time in the last two hours, Santana retched, her head hanging so low over the toilet that her chin nearly touched its rim. Her back was taut and shaky with effort, sweat dampening her tangled hair and shining visibly at her forehead and neck, and she gagged and gasped for breath, faint, pained whimpers escaping her throat. She had been sick most of the night and now it was approaching morning with no signs of her nausea or weakness abating.

Puck was not exactly enjoying himself. Even in the best of circumstances he was leery of sick people and particularly vomiting sick people, and he had never exactly been eager to do anything except stay far away from them so he wouldn't catch it himself. He hadn't been very helpful when Quinn had been experiencing her morning sickness partly because of that reasoning, even though he had known at the time that she was not going to infect him with anything. But now he had little choice but to help Santana. She wouldn't have allowed for Kurt to, and between Rachel's exaggerated fear of germs and the fact that Santana's highest level of comfort was with him, the job of caring for her had fallen to him.

He knew that there would eventually be even bigger hell to pay somehow, in some way, because of all places, Santana had gotten sick while on shift at the diner. Luckily, she had made it into the bathroom instead of all over some customer or their food, but nevertheless she had been so upset that Rachel had had to put up a sign stating that the bathroom was out of order while she tried to coax Santana into standing and coming out to be helped, all the while keeping a measurable distance from her. She had, as was almost always the resort, called Puck to come help, and it had been up to him to wipe Santana down with rough paper towels and cheap, smelly soap the best he could and hail a cab for them, all the while half carrying her and smelling her sour breath.

They had had to stop the cab driver once on the way home for Santana to vomit again, and from the moment he saw her in the restroom, all the way home, until she fell in an exhausted, restless sleep, Santana had kept up a steady flow of tears Now in their own bathroom some four or five hours later, Santana was weeping again, her cries sharp, jagged, and nearing hysteria, and Puck's head pounded, his eyes hot and scratchy with weariness as he tried to maintain his patience. He hated to see her upset and hurting, but god, it was just a freaking stomach virus, not the end of the world.

"Come on, 'Tana, it's all right," he mumbled, gently rubbing his hand up and down her heaving spine and leaning in to kiss its center. "Promise. S'okay."

He took a washcloth and dampened it, having to rise with painfully creaking knees to do so, and rejoined Santana, combing his fingers through her hair to pull it into a more secure ponytail. Beginning to wipe off her face, neck, and arms with the dampened cloth, Puck continued to speak to her in a mumble intended to be comforting but broken up with yawns.

"Gotta stop crying, San, gonna get all dehydrated and shit…hospital…and hospitals suck. Come on…try some water again…"

She had not been able so far to keep down juice or crackers, and she could only take small sips of water before starting to gag again. She shook her head weakly when Puck suggested this, tears still streaking down her face, nose running slightly, and Puck sighed, wiping her face again with the washcloth. She seemed to be having difficulty catching her breath, her chest heaving to the point that Puck, becoming more alert, realized she was on the verge of a panic attack.

Steeling himself to ignore the general grossness of all the germs of the situation, Puck wrapped his arms around her from behind, rocking her slightly, and tried to exaggerate his own breathing against her ear so she could hear and try to match her own to his.

"Hey…San, calm down. It's okay. It's okay, you're just sick, okay? You're still okay, just sick. It ain't gonna last more than a day or two, and then you get to clean up after all the rest of us once you infect us one by one, right? You're gonna be okay. I'm right here and you're okay."

But Santana couldn't seem to calm down. She was still sobbing hard, her breathing taking on a more and more desperate edge until she seemed to be struggling to breathe at all. Confused and increasingly concerned, Puck rocked her, repeating aloud his attempted words of comfort, utterly bemused that she couldn't seem to understand. It took her a good minute or two before she was able to speak coherently enough to try to get her thoughts across to him.

"W-what…what if I'm…what if I'm n-not really s-sick…"

Perplexed, Puck frowned as he looked down at her, having no idea at all what she meant. The one thing in life that seemed most blindingly obvious to him in that moment was that Santana Lopez was sick, and since she was the one experiencing it, he was at a loss as to how she could feel otherwise.

"You obviously are, San," he pointed out, rubbing her shoulder. "You're puking your guts out and can barely sit up on your own…"

But then it occurred to him that those particular symptoms didn't necessarily have to equate to viral sickness. Stricken, he looked down at her quickly, taking her chin and trying to lift her face up where she would have to look at him as he started to question her more intently.

"Hold up, wait, what are you saying, Santana? Do you think…you weren't poisoned, were you? What did you eat, what did you drink? Could someone have slipped something in your…do I need to call 911? Where's the phone?"

He saw Santana shake her head slightly, but felt no better. Maybe it had been too long for it to be poison, but what if it was slow acting or something?

But then another, even more terrible thought occurred to him, and Puck stilled, his voice dropping. "Santana…you didn't do something to yourself, did you? Take something, or…you didn't…you're not…"

He stopped, not wanting to finish the sentence, not able to make himself form the words. How was he supposed to ask the girl still crying and shaking, weak-limbed and heavy-headed, in his arms, if she had taken something to try to kill or harm herself?

But she was shaking her head again, sniffling and gulping and obviously trying to gain enough control to explain herself, and Puck breathed out slowly, just slightly relieved. Trying to help her calm, he rubbed her back again, waiting, until she was able eventually to stammer out her fears.

"What if….wh-what if I'm…what if I'm p-pregnant…"

What….

Puck's froze, his hand stilling on Santana's back, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to think through this suggestion. It was an option he hadn't considered at all, seeing as he knew for a fact that he and Santana weren't having sex, and she would never, as far as he knew, even be apart from him or Kurt and Rachel long enough to be able to accomplish sex, even if she wanted to. And yet she seemed fully convinced that it was a valid and maybe even likely possibility.

"What…but…you're not…" he started, stammering almost as much as Santana herself. "Did you? We haven't been…and…you didn't with anyone? Whoa, wait…Santana, no one MADE you-"

"No," she denied hurriedly, shaking her head. "No…no…"

"Then…how?" Puck frowned. He carded his fingers through her hair again, trying to lift her face from its buried position against his chest, but Santana was stubborn, refusing to look up. For another thirty seconds or so he could feel her breathing against him, her respiration shallow and somewhat snotty, and then she whispered a name against his shirt.

"You…and…and R-Remington…"

Puck's body reacted automatically with a shudder, his jaw clinching, every muscle tensing up at the mere mention of the name. They never spoke it aloud between them, not since their escape, never, not once. And yet here it was, hanging in the air, a voiced possibility and fear, and for a moment, Puck was horrified that this might be so.

And then facts and reality began to settle in, and Puck sighed aloud, somewhat relieved by their concreteness.

"It's been almost three months, baby," he pointed out, keeping his voice soft, gentle. He barely noticed the endearment that had slipped into his speech. "You had your period last week, I remember you complaining about it. And you would have noticed more signs before this point. I remember when Quinn was pregnant, trust me, it was pretty obvious even when she wasn't really showing yet. And they tested you at the hospital, remember? You're not pregnant, you're just sick."

"But…but what if…" Santana had to take another deep breath, swallowing, and one trembling hand lifted to rub at her cheeks, to swipe under her still runny nose as she tried and failed to calm herself down. "What if it was just…I-I heard about s-spotting, you might think it's your period and it's n-not…and w-what if they didn't…what if there hadn't been enough time to know…"

"You mean…not enough time in between getting pregnant and taking the test for it to show on the test?" Puck tried to interpret for her, once he saw that she wouldn't be able to finish the sentence with full coherence in any kind of reasonable time frame. As Santana gave a tiny nod against his chest, her throat moving obviously with her convulsive swallowing, he kissed the top of her head and pulled her a little closer, sighing.

"I don't know about that stuff, 'Tana, but you had a check up three weeks ago, remember? There would have been enough time passed by then for them to definitely know. You should have been puking a month ago if you were gonna puke because you were pregnant. Promise. You can call Quinn and ask her. Call your mom, call my mom, Shelby, Mrs. Hudson, anyone. They're all gonna tell you the same thing. If you were pregnant, the bloodwork you took three weeks ago would have showed it, and you would have known by now. Okay? You want me to call them for you and let you talk to them so they can tell you too?"

He doubted that Santana would really want him to do that; he couldn't imagine her wanting to talk to anyone while she was sick and still sniffling back tears, not only letting them hear her but deliberately seeking them out to talk to. But if she needed the assurance that badly, he was more than willing to do this for her. He wasn't surprised, however, when Santana slowly shook her head, again wiping at her nose with her wrist.

"N-no…not if you're sure…are you SURE you're sure…"

"I'm sure, San," Puck told her with as much confidence as he could muster, even as a small, uneasy part of him prayed that there was no possible way, unlikely as it was, that he might be wrong. "Totally sure. You're not pregnant. You're not pregnant, and by the time I start puking some time tomorrow you're gonna be okay."

He felt her sink back into him even more fully as she started to accept this, her tears slowing, then fading into only occasional sniffs. Tearing off a strip of toilet paper, Puck handed it to Santana for her to wipe her face off or blow her nose if needed, but she just clinched it in her hand, continuing to slowly relax. Puck was starting to wonder if she was going to sleep, if he would have to pick her up and carry her back to the bed, when she spoke, her voice hoarse and scratchy.

"I just…I just got scared. If it was…I couldn't do it, not if it was his…"

"Not gonna happen," Puck shook his head, his jaw tensing up again as he shook his head, swaying back and forth with her slightly. "Never. S'okay."

He held her for a few more moments, his face lowered slightly towards her hair, as she finally blew her nose and started to stir against him, seeming to be psyching herself up to move off of the floor. Puck swallowed, debating whether to voice the thought that had been turning over in his mind, and then just dove in, breathing out with a slow sigh.

"San…you know when you went to the doctor last, and in the hospital, how they talked about maybe seeing someone…a counselor, or-"

"No," she said immediately, emphatically, and with no inclination whatsoever to listen to anything further he might have to say. She shook her head, her hair brushing his chin as she repeated herself. "No."

Puck was not surprised. Her reaction every time the subject had been broached had been equally certain and negative, and in fact, this was her mildest reaction so far. He could understand her decision; hell, people had mentioned counseling to him too, and he had been insulted at the thought. Why the hell would he want to sit with a stranger who didn't understand a damn thing and talk about the worst days of his life, actually have to say out loud to some old person with alphabet soup behind their name everything he and Santana had gone through that they would never be able to identify with in any way at all? Why open himself up to judgment and criticism when he more than judged and criticized himself?

He understood Santana's choice, and said nothing further to her about it. But as he held her, waiting for her to calm down enough to stand and come to bed, he worried all the same.


	14. Help

Puck didn't want to say it, didn't want to even think it. But everyone, himself included, knew that Santana was doing worse.

He could make every excuse in the book, could tell everyone they came into contact with that she was doing fine, and on her good days, he could almost believe it. But when Santana's good days began to stretch further and further apart, and soon he found himself looking for good hours instead of entire days, he began to understand, as much as he wanted to deny it, that she was no longer getting better, if she ever really had been at all.

At least once a week now, sometimes more, Santana got upset or panicked enough at the diner that she had to take a long break, forcing Rachel or Kurt, if they were also working, to be distracted from their duties as well to help her, and it was becoming more frequent that she had to leave it all together and go home. She was on the verge of being fired, their boss having already strongly suggested she quit, and it was only Rachel's wide-eyed bluffing that Santana was disabled and could not be fired on the basis of her disability that was her current saving grace. This was actually true, Rachel explained to Kurt and Puck in private, though not technically; Rachel with her introductory to psychology had unofficially diagnosed Santana with posttraumatic stress disorder and was looking with suspicious measuring gaze towards Puck as well, and she had stated that it was true that someone could not be fired due to a disability. However, as Santana had not been officially declared disabled by someone who had the authority to do so, she could in fact be fired at any time, if their boss decided to actually look into Rachel's claims.

Her nightmares had come more often, with more intensity, and took longer recovery time. Most nights she slept fitfully, if at all, and in the mornings she was generally cranky, visibly exhausted, and either snappy to the extreme or tearful, crying at the slightest disturbance. She had visibly lost weight and seemed to have no appetite, and nothing Puck tried to tempt her with seemed to taste good to her. Santana put objects in front of her door when she showered now in an even greater effort to avoid anyone accidentally barging in, and she checked whether the doors were locked so often that it took her hours to even attempt to lie down at night. There were days where she couldn't seem to even look at Puck, let alone talk to him or let him touch her, and there were days where she was so overwhelmed and desperate for assurance that only Puck was allowed to touch or talk to her and only he could calm her down. It was a noticeable difference, not just some days but nearly every day, and they were all worried sick.

They couldn't talk to Santana about it; what could they say without making it seem as if they simply thought she was crazy? And yet they had little chance to talk to each other about it, when she was almost always within earshot. Each time they did attempt conversation it was furtive and rushed, with no conclusions drawn except that they still felt helpless to it all.

But still, Puck could tell himself that they were getting by, even if they were struggling; he could tell himself that Santana was having a rough time, but she'd come out on the other side like always. He told himself that, no matter how rough the day or how upset she was, and until the night Rachel came to him, he could almost believe it.

It was one of Santana's bad nights; she had had a nightmare that woke everyone in the apartment up with her screams, and it had taken her almost thirty minutes afterward to calm down. Puck's chest still hurt, his teeth gritted tightly from his leftover emotions; he could still hear Santana's sobs echoing through the house, seeming to hit him straight in the heart, even though she had gone quiet at least ten or fifteen minutes ago. It was one of the days where she wouldn't let Puck near her, and it had fallen to Rachel to hold her and comfort her the best she could instead. Puck had expected, after Santana had fallen asleep, to lie awake himself, unable to rest in case he missed hearing her weeping start again, in case Rachel couldn't calm her the second time around. He hadn't expected either her nor Rachel to emerge from Santana's bed area until morning. But Rachel had scared him half to death when she came up behind him suddenly on the couch, whispering his name.

His entire body jolting with shock, Puck's head whipped around to regard her, and he sucked in his breath, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. Narrowing his eyes at Rachel, he shook his head, one hand covering his chest as he blinked several times at her.

"Jesus, Rach, I thought you would stay with San. Why aren't you in there with here, did she kick you out?"

"No…but Noah, I have to talk to you," she whispered, and when Puck heard the choked tone of her voice, saw that she was biting her lip, tears standing in her eyes, he got to his feet quickly, walking closer to her. Rachel was wringing her hands, and her face was paler than usual- not good signs at all.

"What, what is it? Why did you leave her in there? Rach, you can't leave her alone in there, she'll wake up terrified after one of those dreams. You know she's not gonna let me stay with her tonight, it's gotta be you."

"She's asleep, it's okay right now…I promise I'll go back to her in a minute," Rachel whispered, or at least gave an approximation of her idea of a whisper. She glanced back towards the curtained area several times, as though expecting Santana to come through it at any moment. Puck couldn't hear her snoring, so this did in fact seem a strong possibility.

"I just…Noah, I have to tell you something, I just…I can't…"

She blinked several more times, sucking in her breath slowly, her hand cupping over her mouth as she shook her head. Starting to get more than a little alarmed by her response, Puck took her by the shoulder, starting to ask in a slightly louder and more insistent tone what was going on, but Rachel shook her head again and tapped his arm with her free hand, starting to lead him towards the bathroom. Puck followed, perplexed, and watched with growing anxiety at Rachel turned on the faucet on the sink. This coming from Rachel, who constantly complained about people not conserving electricity and the water bills….if she would waste water to try to keep people, namely Santana, from hearing her conversation, this must be something serious.

"Rachel, you're freaking me out," Puck said bluntly, hearing the continued edge in his own voice, starting to approach the same intensity as Rachel's. "What happened?"

Rachel took another breath, then slowly sat on the closed toilet seat, motioning for Puck to sit on the tub's edge. He didn't though; his nervous energy, despite his lack of sleep, made him want only to stand, and so Puck crossed his arms over his chest and leaned towards her, waiting for her response.

"I…well, Santana, when she was waking up, she was kicking around, you know how she does, and her blankets and sheets…they were on the floor, you know? And…the bottoms she wears to bed, you know, the pajamas that don't actually match her shirt, they were sliding down at the hips, and her shirt was riding up, and…I could see-"

"What?" Puck interrupted, impatient. "You saw her panties, you saw her lack of panties? You saw some of her privates? So what, Rachel? She's a girl, and I would almost guarantee she used to walk around naked or close enough all the time before- well, before."

"That's not it, Noah," Rachel whispered, breathing in slowly again. Puck saw her visibly swallow and his own fists flexed in response. He knew that she had more to say; he knew that she had something terrible to say, and he didn't want to hear it. But he had to, so he waited, trying to take slow breaths in and out.

"There's….Noah, there's….injuries…on her hips. Santana's…"

"Injuries?" Puck had frowned, not having any idea of what she was referring to. "Like what, she bruised herself? She okay? Did she fall out of bed or something?"

"No…Noah, no," Rachel had stammered, shaking her head. "She…no, it's not, it isn't bruises. It's more like…like cuts…"

She had paused meaningfully, swallowing, and looked into Puck's eyes, but he still didn't understand what sh

she was trying to say.

"Was there something in the bed that hurt her? And earring or something? Is she bleeding? Go get the first aid kit if she is, I know she's sleeping but if she's bleeding you don't want her to rip it open more rolling around in her sleep-"

"No, Noah!" Rachel's voice rose a little, starting to show some impatience, and she shook her head vehemently, even gesturing a little with her hands. "No, it isn't like that, it wasn't an accident…I can tell. It's…Noah, they weren't new. They weren't bleeding, they were a day or two old, and…" she took a deep breath in, released it, her voice softening. "She did it to herself, Noah. I can tell looking at it. She did them to herself…on purpose."

At first, Puck was sure he simply hadn't heard her right. It didn't make any sense, what it was she was trying to say. Because someone who did that, well, they were crazy, and Santana was a lot of things, but she wasn't crazy. He admittedly might have called her that a few times, well, more than a few times, and maybe the idea had seriously passed through his mind on some of her worst days. But he didn't actually believe it to be true. Santana wasn't genuinely crazy, so why would she do something that was so extreme? Why would she deliberately cut herself, if Rachel's observation was even accurate?

Of course he had heard of people, particularly girls, doing such things. But Santana Lopez? It couldn't be right, and Puck refused to believe it.

"No, she didn't," he said immediately, his voice gruff, shaking his head. "No she didn't, Rachel. You probably saw shadows or like…weird bruises or something. Or maybe she scratched herself in her sleep with her nails. She's got those long-ass nails, it would be easy to do. And if she was rolling around like you said, of course that's what happened."

"It didn't look like scratches, Noah," Rachel said softly but insistently. She came closer to him, trying to lay her hand on his arm, but Puck snatched his arm away from her, unable to look her in the eye, let alone let her touch him. "I know the difference, I've scratched myself with my nails before, and it didn't look like that. It was cuts, Noah. Cuts like from a razor blade or a knife. Healing cuts."

"What? How do you know that? You're overreacting," Puck's voice came out tightly, and he kept shaking his head, taking a step away from Rachel when she tried again to approach. "You and your psychology 101 classes, you're not a shrink or a doctor, Rachel, how the hell do you know what cuts look like from fingernails versus razors? Santana wouldn't do that. She wouldn't do it and if she did, I'd know. I'd KNOW."

"Would you?" Rachel asked softly, and it wasn't so much the question as the tone of her voice that froze Puck. "Would you really, Noah? Are you sure?"

He didn't answer right away, unable to trust his own voice. But he could still hear Rachel talking.

"She has nightmares, Noah. She doesn't sleep and she barely eats and she won't let us close and she won't talk to us. She won't let Kurt even touch her and sometimes she won't let you. She can't hardly work anymore, forget doing any school, she can barely even go out onto the streets. And I'm not blaming her, Noah, I know it's not her fault, but she won't talk about it and she won't give herself a release for it, not a healthy one, anyway, and I'm sorry but she's not getting better, she's just not. She's NOT, Noah, and she's starting to hurt herself, and I just…I don't want to see anything else happen to her, I can't live with that. Please Noah, please just…please, talk to her about it, because if you don't then I will, and I think she'll take it better coming from you. PLEASE."

Rachel had left the bathroom then, shutting the door behind her after first reaching to turn the sink's faucet off. Puck had sat numbly, still shaking his head, not wanting to acknowledge in any way that maybe Rachel was right, that maybe she did actually see what she was saying she had seen. But no matter what he told himself, he couldn't deny that she had some of what she was saying right. If Santana was hurting herself- not that she was, but if there was even the tiniest possibility- then she almost certainly would hide it from everyone else. And if she was, and no one knew, well, obviously no one could help her.

He couldn't sleep the rest of that night; he didn't even try. He sat up on the couch, staring blearily at the TV with the sound turned all the way down, and thought obsessively about Rachel's claim. He thought about the smooth, unblemished skin of Santana's hips and tried to remember when he had seen them last. He couldn't recall, and this alarmed him as much as anything. There was reason for it, of course- he couldn't very well be sensitive to her need for privacy and personal space with her body by wanting to see her undressed or asking to do it, and he himself had no real desire to see her in this way.

Rachel had to be wrong. She just had to be. And yet he couldn't stop thinking, and wondering….if maybe, just maybe she was right. And if she was right, exactly what did that mean…and what should he do?

The next morning Puck called in sick for work. He didn't have a definite plan in his head; even not going to work had been something he decided on an impulse. He didn't try to explain himself to Santana, but then, she didn't ask. She simply sat at the breakfast table, after Kurt and Rachel had left for school, dawdling, and played with the spoon in her cereal without actually eating it at all. She sipped occasionally at the coffee beside her bowl, but even this was not something she appeared to be actually drinking so much as giving the appearance of drinking.

"San, eat that," Puck told her tersely, not surprised when Santana shook her head at him, replying without much expression in either voice or tone.

"I'm not that hungry, I already ate what I wanted to."

"What, nothing?" Puck scoffed. "You know you feel like shit and you act like a bitch when you don't eat. Eat the rest of that."

When Santana narrowed her eyes at him, Puck realized that this was the first time in a week or so that he had snapped at her like that. And when he thought back as to the reason why, it struck him that it was because she had been having so many bad days lately he wouldn't have dared, because she had seemed so fragile, as though she couldn't have taken it.

His mind went uneasily back to Rachel's claim, and he found his eyes sliding down Santana's abdomen to her lap, unwillingly picturing the skin beneath her clothing.

"I said I'm not hungry. Don't be a food nazi, a wannabe nutritionist, or my mother. I'm not hungry and I'm not eating," Santana was saying, but Puck wasn't listening to her words. He was still looking at her hips, and his response to her came so abruptly that even he hadn't quite expected it.

"Santana, I want to look at your hips."

Santana blinked then, her head actually rearing back in response to him, and for a second Puck thought he saw a flash of fear in her eyes. But then it was covered up with her usual snark, or at least, a faint imitation of it, as she rolled her eyes at him.

"First you want me to eat, then you want me to stand up and model my hot bod for you. You can see my hips perfectly fine while I'm seated, if you want to wait around until I'm ready to get up, all I have to say is you might be in for a wait, weirdo."

Puck ignored her efforts at lightness. He continued to regard her seriously, feeling his own heart starting to beat faster, but ignored it, pushing himself to continue as if she hadn't spoken at all.

"You don't have to take your pants off, Santana, or underwear either. I don't want to see anything but your hips. If you just roll down the waistband of your jeans and panties, if they're not a g-string, maybe unzip and unbutton your pants a little so you can, just enough so I can see. I'm not gonna touch you or anything, I promise. I just want to see."

And then came the reaction he had expected from the start, the immediate tensing of her features, the darkening of her pupils, the defensiveness taking over her posture and twisting up her mouth. Santana glared at him, immediately shaking her head, and got to her feet, pushing the chair she had been sitting in such a way that it was in front of her, blocking Puck's quick access to her.

"What the fuck, Puck, no! What the fuck is your problem?"

"I'm asking you to do this, San," Puck said quietly but intently, not yet moving towards her. "I'm asking, but if you keep saying no then I'm not gonna be asking anymore and neither one of us is gonna like it. But it's gonna get done. I don't want to have to make you, I never wanna make you do anything you don't want to. You know that. I don't want to hurt or touch you and I'm not gonna. But you're gonna show me your hips and you're gonna show me today. And if I gotta make you do it, I will."

"What the fuck is wrong with you? You weirdo, you pervert…no! No, I'm not showing you anything, you asshole, and you can't fucking make me!" Santana spat, but despite the anger in her expression, Puck could see that her hands were shaking, that she was biting the inside of her cheeks, and the panic in her eyes outweighed the rage. "Get the fuck away from me, what the fuck is the matter with you?!"

"This ain't about being a pervert, this is about me giving a shit about you when you obviously don't give a shit about yourself, Santana! This is about me fucking loving you, so show me! Show me your hips, Santana, right now!"

It didn't register to Puck that he was almost shouting, that he was coming closer to the point of almost towering over her, using his body in an intimidating manner towards her that he had long ago promised himself would never happen, ever. It didn't register to him that he had just told her that he loved her, for the first time that he could recall without any joking or equivocating about it, and that it had come about under these intense and angry circumstances. He was focused in on Santana and Santana alone, and she was doing everything she could to refuse cooperation.

"No, Puck, NO," she snapped, but her voice was shaking, and the anger had entirely gone out of her expression. She was shaking her head, her lower lip caught between her teeth, and her fingers whitened with their grip around the back of the chair. "I'm not showing you anything, leave me alone…leave me the fuck alone…no."

"Show me," Puck repeated, his voice softer now, but no less insistent. He took a deep breath, hearing his own pulse pounding in his temples, and tried to relax his hands, to lean back slightly from Santana, so he wasn't crowding her as much, without actually stepping away. "Show me, Santana. Show me."

"No…"

She was crying now and trying to hide it, sniffling back tears and lowering her head, letting her hair fall over her face in an effort to conceal it. She was trying, but Puck could plainly hear her sniffs, could see the tears streaking down her cheeks, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. He saw this all and he knew with sudden certainty that this wasn't about Santana being skittish of being touched or controlled, this wasn't about Santana being afraid of him, or even Santana just being cranky because she didn't sleep well last night. This was a fear that went beyond this all, a fear that was very specific to what Puck was asking her. There was a reason that Santana didn't want him to look at her, a very exacting reason, and Puck knew then, however much he still wanted to deny, that Rachel had been right.

"Show me, Santana," he said softly, letting out a slow, uneven breath, aware of a sudden choking in his own throat. "Just show me. Let's get this over with…show me."

"Puck…Puck, please," she was sobbing now, still shaking her head, shaking so badly that Puck could see the twitches of her muscles running through her taut arms, making her shoulders jump. "Please don't make me do this. I'm not doing this, I can't. I can't."

"Show me," Puck dropped his own voice lower, almost a whisper, and now he heard the choking in his throat turn up in his voice as well. "Please Santana…I know. I already know. Please just show me."

For a minute or two he thought that he would have to force her after all, that he would have to take hold of her arms or hands and try to hold her down while she struggled, trying to pull down her pants with the other hand. But eventually, Santana let go of the chair, tears still steadily streaming down her cheeks, head lowered so it was not possible to look him in the eyes, and undid her pants with trembling hands. Slowly, unwillingly, she lowered them a few inches, just enough for Puck to be able to see the healing gashes in her skin, stretched over the knobs of her hipbones.

Puck sucked in his breath and didn't release it, just staring, stricken at the marks marring her flesh. They were still reddened at the edges, not shallow scratches or scrapes, as he had still hoped and expected, but precise, symmetrical cuts, guided by a sure hand. He stared, blinking rapidly, and then scrubbed one hand over his face as though he could erase from his memory what he had just seen. His chest compressing, he tried to stifle the sobs rising up to his throat, to keep back the familiar burning behind his eyes, desperately trying and failing to remain calm.

Santana could not maintain the same level of control. She was no longer even attempting to stop herself from crying, sobbing in a high pitched keen that left her almost gasping for breath. Puck didn't dare touch her, nevertheless, couldn't bring himself to. It took many tries before he could force out any words to her at all.

"S-Santana…Tana, WHY…"

"I-I-I don't know…"

"No," he shook his head, his voice rising up again, not quite a shout, but getting there. "NO, no, don't give me that, DON'T…WHY? Why would you do this…Santana, WHY?"

His tone only provoked a fresh round of tears for Santana, and she nearly doubled over, gripping the back of the chair to support herself. Still Puck couldn't bring himself to go to her…and when she spoke, he had to strain his ears to hear.

"B-because it's…it's ugly…because…because when people s-see it…if…they, they won't want to go any f-further…it…it's ugly and it will…it will scare them off…"

It took a few second before what she was saying really hit him, before he really understood the impact of her words. She was trying to keep herself from being hurt again, trying to keep herself from being raped…destroying herself on the outside, to keep from anyone trying to destroy her on the inside. She was hurting herself to try to protect herself, harming herself before others could harm her, and the realization of this struck Puck so heavily he felt it like a physical blow against him.

He couldn't have kept himself from touching her then, couldn't have stopped himself from pulling her resisting frame against his chest and holding her as tightly as he could. He was trying then to protect her, in some way, from everything and everyone that would ever hurt her, but most of all from herself. Santana let go, heaving with her tears against his chest, shuddering and weeping so harshly that Puck thought if he let her go, she would fall in a heap to the floor. He held her, trying to swallow back his own tears, but he could hear them in his voice when he spoke to her.

"Tana…Tana, please. You need help. I wanna help you but I can't, don't you know I can't? You need help, real help. I don't like that shrink shit any more than you do, but I can't…I can't make you better. I can't do it, I've tried and I can't, I probably fuck you over worse every day no matter how hard I try just being here, and…please, Tana, please. I'm always gonna be here for you, always, I'm not gonna go anywhere, and I...I know you're strong…I know…but please…you need help. Please, Tana, please. Please let me get you help."

He didn't think she heard him at first, or that she would acknowledge anything he had to say. He expected further tears and denials, protests and meltdowns…but instead, he felt a shuddering breath against his skin, and then the tiniest of nods.


	15. Truth

Truths

It was a waiting room not markedly different from any other. Boring, softly colored pictures on the walls, slightly worn magazines on the small tables in front of the circle of chairs, and a corner stacked with children's toys, a detail that given the nature of the place they were at, greatly disturbed Puck. What need was there for children to be there, let alone often enough to need to provide them entertainment, at a rape crisis center?

It had taken a few days after their confrontation for Santana to agree to let him call the place and set up an appointment, and it had taken one cancelled appointment and a week of coaxing before he could get her to agree to come to the second set up appointment. It was a good thing that the services were free, or Santana would have been blowing through money she didn't have just to give herself more anxiety and Puck more stress.

But she had come today, despite all her misgivings, apprehension, and blatant fear. She had still come, though Puck was starting to wonder if she was going to consent to leave his side to speak with her counselor.

Holding her hand, Puck gave it a gentle squeeze, then turned his head to kiss her softly on the forehead. She was sitting as close to him as could be managed given the hard dividing armrests of their chairs, and he could see her throat working as she swallowed several times, trying to stay calm. Puck wanted to hug her, to at least put his arm around her and try to protect her with his own touch, but she was holding his hand too tightly for him to easily pull away.

At least she wasn't crying, or having an outright panic attack, like she had the day they ended up cancelling the appointment. This was an improvement, and Puck decided to voice this to her.

"You're doing okay, San," he whispered into her ear, again squeezing her hand, rubbing his thumb over its back. "I'm so proud of you, you know?"

Santana gave a shaky laugh, shaking her head. "Funny, it used to take a hell of a lot more than sitting in a room to make someone proud of me. How the mighty have fallen."

She hadn't wanted Rachel to come with her. She hadn't explained to him why this was, and Puck hadn't asked. On one hand, he was somewhat flattered that Santana chose him, that she still needed him the most, but on the other hand…he was very uncomfortable. Sitting in this room, looking at the few other women sitting silently as well, most without someone sitting beside them to hold their hands, Puck felt very conspicuous, very out of place, and very aware of his size and in particular, the fact that he was male.

None of them were looking at him, and Puck was worried that this was not because they were uninterested or bored, or wanting privacy or anonymity, but rather because he intimidated them. Sitting with Santana, he was very aware of being the only male, very aware that every woman in the room with him had in some way been sexually violated, and this made him the odd person out. He couldn't look at any of them without wondering what had happened to them, who had hurt them, and if they thought given the chance, he might hurt them too. It all seemed so wrong and so unfair, so upsetting that he didn't even want to accidentally look at them. He tried to focus on Santana alone, looking down at her and keeping his hands busy touching her in comforting ways.

"You're doing more than sitting in a room," he told her. "This is hard, San, any idiot who doesn't know shit about you would recognize it's hard. So yeah, I'm proud. If you wanna do something you think is more impressive to make me prouder, I ain't gonna tell you no, though."

He said this lightly, trying to ease some of her tension, but Santana didn't smile. She just took in another breath, her nails digging into Puck's hand to a slightly painful level, but he didn't complain. It would only be another few minutes, hopefully, before she would be called back.

When Santana's name was called, Puck watched her pale, biting her lip, and her nails dug still more harshly into his skin. He stood first, gently tugging her to her feet, and for a moment held onto her, searching her tensed features.

"San, if you want me to go in with you this time, I will. If not, I'll be right here, you can come get me if you need, okay?"

But Santana took a deep breath in, release it out. And although her lips pressed into a thin line and Puck saw her chest heave with her efforts to calm, she still shook her head, lifting her chin.

"No, I'll…I'll go. I'll go by myself."

And she did. She let go of Puck slowly, not without reluctance, and with only one glance back, headed towards the woman who had called her, her new counselor. Puck watched the woman greet her with a gentle smile and lead her back towards her office, and he realized that his pulse had quickened, that his legs felt strangely shaky when he sat back down.

It seemed to him an eternity that Santana was apart from him in her session. There was nothing for Puck to do with his time but sit and worry obsessively over what she was doing, what she was saying, whether the counselor was any help at all to her or would just make things worse. How could she ever really understand what Santana had been through? What if she made her upset or scared or angry by saying something stupid? What if she thought Santana was crazy and needed to be hospitalized? There was so much that could go wrong, and Puck wondered if they were crazy to try to let someone else in who really didn't know either of them at all. How could he really expect someone else to know what was best for Santana if he didn't, when he knew her better than anyone?

He couldn't look at magazines; they were all aimed towards women, and it would make him look weird. He couldn't look at the other women, of course, and even in his effort to avoid doing so, he found himself wondering repeatedly if they somehow knew that any fears they might have had towards him were not simply because he was male, but also because they could somehow tell what it was he had done. He was not a victim, not like them, or even merely a supporter of a victim. He was a victimizer, because, whether he had wanted to or not, he had raped Santana. He was part of the reason she was here.

What if they knew that? What if they hated him for it, without even knowing his name?

Puck was startled when the same woman who had lead Santana away reappeared, calling his name. He was quick to get to his feet, immediately assuming the worst, but the woman smiled at him, quickly trying to ease his concerns.

"Santana is doing fine, she just wants you to join as well now. If you have no objections, I think it could be beneficial to you."

Puck didn't exactly want to sit in; he didn't want to hear what Santana had to say, when he already knew exactly what had happened and had no desire to hear it voiced aloud. He didn't want to see her get upset or see this woman he didn't even know the name of look at him with judgment or worse, pity. He didn't want to, but Santana was asking, and he had promised he would if she did.

Sitting on the small loveseat across from the counselor's chair, Santana looked teary, but reasonably okay compared to when Puck had last seen her. He came towards her immediately, then stopped, unsure if she wanted him to touch her or sit with her. When Santana sniffed, gesturing for him to sit with her, Puck obeyed, but then still hesitated to touch her until Santana herself reached for his hand.

"You okay, San?"

"Santana, would you like to discuss with Noah what you were just telling me?" the woman asked, and after a few moments Santana shrugged one shoulder, but nevertheless started to talk, looking towards the door rather than towards either of them.

"We were…well, I was talking about what happened. You know, what we had to do. And…" she paused, then looked at the woman as though for help, biting her lip. She made a gesture as though she wanted her to pick up for her, and the woman did.

"Correct me if I say anything inaccurately, Santana. What Santana was expressing to me is that she sometimes has difficulty forgiving you for having sex with her, Noah, when she did not wish you to-"

Puck's head dropped, and he breathed out, trying to pull his hand away from hers. But Santana squeezed it tighter, making a noise in her throat as though to urge him to keep listening, as the woman continued to speak quietly.

"But she also shared that she understands how you never tried to harm her, and how you did everything you could to try to keep her safe from worse and more intense harm. Another thing that Santana has just shared with me is that she feels very badly because she believes you have feelings of guilt and shame and what she feels may even be self-hatred for having been made to have sexual relations with her, when she understands that it was also not your fault and against your own will. Santana expressed that she wants you to understand, but isn't sure how to say, that she has understood for a long time that it isn't fair for either of you to be upset with you for something you did not choose or control, and that it isn't fair or right to focus all the attention on her as the sole victim when she was not the only person who was raped."

The woman looked at Santana then for confirmation. "Did I leave anything out you wished to say or say anything incorrectly, Santana? Would you like to speak with Noah yourself?"

Santana shook her head, sniffling, and squeezed Puck's hand, not quite looking him in the eyes. Puck felt his brow furrow with confusion as he tried to sort through what the woman had just laid out to him, words that apparently, Santana had said, thought to be true, and wanted him to know. But although he tried to think through it from different angles, he kept returning to the same conclusion.

It didn't make any sense for her to say that she wasn't the only one who was raped. She was, wasn't she? It wasn't like they had another girl thrown in there with them who was also being raped. But when Puck tried to put this into words in his head, it never quite sounded right.

But then he thought he understood what she meant, although it still didn't make sense to him as particularly relevant as having anything to do with him.

"Oh, right, those other girls," he said aloud, nodding slightly as he remembered the other young women who had also been forced into prostitution. The ones he had escorted, the ones with blank eyes and flat expressions, the ones he had hated to look head on, let alone touch. "Yeah," he continued, glancing down at Santana, unsure of what it was that she really wanted to say to him, by speaking of those other girls. At least, he guessed that was what she was doing. "I mean…yeah, it sucks for them too. And I hope they're okay and stuff or are gonna be. But…I don't know, San, we don't even know their names. I mean, I sorta remember some of the names he…they…called them, but I don't know if that was really their names or not. I guess I'm just sorta like…I'm not gonna say it doesn't matter to me, 'cause it does, just…doesn't matter to me as much as you and what happened to you. So. I don't really think about them too much."

Santana was shaking her head though as he spoke, and Puck frowned, still more confused. Was she upset that he was saying it didn't matter to him, disagreeing that it did, or was he still not getting what it was she was trying to say?

"What?" he asked, but Santana was looking to the counselor, making a gesture as though she wanted her to correct him, swallowing and still avoiding his eyes.

"Santana, can you try to explain to him?" the counselor asked, but Santana shook her head, repeating the gesture, and the woman took over for her again.

"You're correct, Noah, the other girls were victims as well. But they are not whom Santana is trying to refer to. Were they, Santana?"

Santana shook her head again, thinning her lips, and seemed to think this answer enough. But the woman was looking at her steadily, and eventually Santana took in a deep breath, squeezed Puck's hand hard, and released it out again, her words coming out small and almost crushed. "No…not…not them, Puck."

"Then who are you talking about, Tana?" he asked, completely bewildered now. "Like, other women we don't know? 'Cause again, sucks for them, but I can't worry about all them. I only got time to worry about you."

But Santana was shaking her head again, more firmly now, and this time she looked Puck in the eyes and sat up straighter when she spoke. "You, Puck…I'm talking about you."

For a moment or two Puck thought he had simply misheard what she was saying. Then he thought he couldn't actually mean that she was really talking about him. Maybe she was being sarcastic, frustrated at his lack of understanding, or maybe she was still upset and didn't really know what she was saying. Because for her to say that he too had been raped…well, it just didn't make sense.

He squinted at her, unaware that his mouth was slightly open, his head tilted towards her with clear confusion. The counselor was watching them both, but particularly Santana, but Santana seemed to be done with her words for now. She had started wiping at her face repeatedly, her head down, though Puck hadn't seen any tears fall, and so the counselor again spoke for her, her voice quiet, but intent.

"You look surprised for her to say that, Puck. Can you tell me why you would find this so startling for her to say?"

"Well, 'cause I wasn't," Puck said slowly, shaking his head. "I mean, I don't know why she's saying that or thinking that 'cause…'cause I wasn't. This is really friggin' weird to talk about, you know?"

He looked down at Santana, shaking her shoulder gently. "San, we don't gotta do this. You're getting all upset and starting to say weird stuff. Let's just go, okay? Come on, you ready to go-"

"No," Santana said, her head snapping up, voice loud and firm, almost aggressive, and she looked at Puck with eyes that were wet, holding back tears, but nevertheless near fierce in expression. "No, I want you to hear this. You have to hear this, Puck."

"San-" he started, but the counselor was speaking over him again in that same measured tone, one that Puck was starting to hate with growing intensity.

"Noah, you were made to have sex with someone against your will and hers, obtaining no pleasure or desire from it, for someone else's monetary benefit and sense of gratification, and you did so out of fear of harm for you both. You didn't choose it, you didn't want it, and it was a crime, committed against not just Santana, but you. If you would look up the definition of the word in any dictionary, in any legal book, you would find that what happened to you and what you were made to do meets the definition of rape. Until you understand and believe that, Noah, it is going to be very difficult for both you and Santana to be able to truly heal. You both have to understand and acknowledge that it wasn't just Santana who was raped during that time, Noah. You were too."

It felt to Puck like a slow rush of coldness had come over his body, starting with his face and working its way in a wave of coolness down his chest and stomach and arms and legs. He wasn't shivering, but he could feel his muscles begin to twitch as though threatening to do so, and he shook his head, trying to deny what the woman had just said before even letting the words fully settle in his thoughts.

"No. No, you got this all wrong, lady. I don't care what the dictionary says, I wasn't. I'm a man. I'm a man, and it didn't happen, okay, not the way you're trying to make it out. Men don't get raped by girls, and they-"

"They can, Puck, actually," the woman interrupted, but Puck shook his head harder, raising his voice.

"Whatever you say, lady, but it didn't happen then, you got that? San didn't rape me, don't even say that kind of shit! What kind of idiot asshole are you, saying shit like that to her! She came here for you to help her and you're gonna call her a fucking rapist, what the fuck!"

"That's not what she's saying, Puck!" Santana put her hand on his knee, squeezing, but Puck could barely feel it. Chest heaving, he shook his head repeatedly, but this didn't stop him from hearing the woman's words.

"You're right, Puck, Santana didn't rape you. But you were raped nevertheless. What you both need to understand is that you also didn't rape her, and you hold no fault in the fact that she has been raped. Your bodies were both used in an act of sexual control and violence, but rape is an act of will and choice, and neither of you chose to do this or had a choice in the matter. You did not rape each other, Puck. You were both being raped by an outside party, who happened to use your bodies to complete the task. You are both equal victims, and you are both equally blameless."

Puck felt as though this entire world had been turned on its head. He had never heard anyone say something like this, had never heard anyone voice this kind of opinion, let alone in front of Santana. For months now he had carried above all other thoughts in his mind, however he tried to bury them, the conviction that he had harmed Santana, that no matter how much good he tried to do for her now, how much he tried to comfort and support her, he could never do away with or make up for the damage his body had wreaked against her. And now this woman was sitting there and saying that he had not harmed her, that he was a victim too? It was wrong…it was so fucking wrong that he wanted to stand up and hit her in the face. She didn't know anything. She didn't understand a fucking thing, not one thing.

But then why was he shaking, his hand now free of Santana's, his fingers tightly gripping his own legs? And why was Santana's chin leaned onto his shoulder, her arm circling his lower back, as one hand slowly reached to wipe the tears he hadn't realized were making their way down his cheek?


	16. Vengeance

Vengeance

Many nights, and often days as well, Puck dreamed of death.

Not so much his death, or Santana's. Their torment always came in much more familiar and real ways, ways that Puck had seen and heard and felt and knew to be reality in another space and time. He was bothered by those vision, whether they exist in his dreams or in his memories, and always came out of them feeling anxious and agitated, needing physical reminders that they were no longer occurring at all.

But the images of deaths, Puck was unbothered by. Sometimes, in fact, he felt they gave him a strange strength, and usually, they even gave him pleasure. Because one thing Puck was not, was a pacifist, and he thought that Remington, Brody, and the others deserved every bit of suffering that could ever be inflicted upon them, real or not.

In his dreams, and sometimes his daydreams too, Puck would find himself wielding a weapon of some kind with great violence and skill, slowly beating them to death, as the others, knowing their turn was coming, screamed and begged for mercy, shaking and whimpering with fright. Sometimes it was a toilet seat, as he had used in real life, or a wrench or an ax or knife. Sometimes he lined them all up and shot them in the head or the heart or the throat, one by one. Sometimes he injured their genitals first, or their hands, making sure they could never use either to hurt another person again. But each time they were bleeding, each time they were in great pain, screaming and suffering, and each time, they would die, every single one of them. And each time, Puck could finally feel a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. Each time, he knew, just knew that this now meant that his and Santana's struggling was over forever.

It didn't work like that, of course. For one thing, all of them but Brody were already dead. Either he or Santana had killed every one of them, and this had brought them no real peace or satisfaction at all. If anything, it seemed to bring them more unrest, because they had not managed to extract any sort of remorse or apologies or even explanations from them first. They were dead, but that didn't mean it was over for them, and it didn't mean that it was okay. It never would, and yet still Puck's mind seemed to hope and believe that if it had simply happened differently, if he could simply change the scenario and have full control, then maybe, just maybe, it would be.

Puck didn't tell anyone for months about his dreams or the daydreams. He didn't want to upset or scare Santana, and he knew that Kurt and Rachel would never understand. But eventually, with great reluctance, he did allude to it to Mrs. Newton, the woman at the rape crisis center that Santana and now he as well was seeing.

"It's a normal and understandable response, Noah, your mind's way of trying to rewrite history to best protect yourself and your emotions, to lower your stress and find a way to give you control," she had told him, showing none of the shock or judgment he had half expected. "I wouldn't dwell on it or try to deliberately draw those sort of mental images to your mind, but I wouldn't worry over them either. If you aren't genuinely making plans to go to the prison and cause a riot for Brody, or go on a vigilante hunt with any man who looks vaguely similar, then that's all it is- thoughts. I can give you tactics to distract and relax your mind when they come, if you would like, but thoughts themselves are not dangerous. Your brain is simply trying to make things better for you than they genuinely are."

Puck didn't tell her that the thought of "causing a riot for Brody" had more than once genuinely crossed his mind. Currently Brody was in prison, awaiting trial for being an accessory to sex trafficking, which would give him potentially up to 25 years in prison should he be convicted. It had been determined that his and Santana's presence in court would not be required, but rather that their statements to the police, hospital records, and police evidence could be used instead, so neither he nor Santana would be required to be present in court. But Puck was aware of the date of the trial, and the closer it came, the more intently he thought about his options.

What he wanted, what he could not stop considering, was to come to court with a weapon of some sort, to rush up to Brody at his defendant's table, and scream for everyone to hear, reporters and all, that he was the worst sort of traitor, that he was a coward and a murderer not of people but of souls. He wanted to scream out everything he had done to Santana and to himself, but mostly, he wanted to hurt him. He wanted to kill him.

Puck knew logically that no weapons were allowed in court, that metal detectors would go off on him, and even if he managed to get past that, then he would undoubtedly be tackled down or even shot before he could probably cause any severe damage. Then his own trial would be next, and he would end up in the cell next to Brody in prison.

He knew this. But it didn't stop him from picturing, wondering…wanting.

He didn't tell anyone. But the day of the trial, when Puck stayed home from work, struggling against his desires over his knowledge of possible outcomes, Santana had looked at him with narrowed eyes, seeming to know without him needing to tell her exactly what was going on. She had walked over to him, slipping her arms around him, and whispered into his shoulder, her chin against him, mouth pressed into his shirt.

"Don't."

It was only one word, but for Puck, it was everything. She couldn't know exactly what he was thinking, but she knew something wasn't right, that he could act on a moment's impulsivity and pay forever. She knew him, even if she didn't know his thoughts, and she didn't want him to leave her for his own temporary satisfaction. She didn't want him to go.

And so Puck had turned in her arms, releasing a slow sigh, and wrapped his own arms around her, drawing her in close to his chest. One hand gently cradling Santana's head against him, he stroked her hair, his head inclining to press his lips against her head.

Vengeance was blind, and so was he, if he would ever really try to put himself in a position where he could never see her again.


	17. Birthday

"You gonna do it, babe?" Puck asked, gently nudging Santana's side with his elbow. When she elbowed him back, considerably harder than he had her, and narrowed her eyes at him, he just smirked, unbothered, and poked her in the shoulder with his finger.

"I said I would," she retorted, her tone grumbling, and she grabbed his finger, bending it backward slightly. "Will you stop touching me? What is with you being unable to keep your hands off me out in public? I know I'm naturally irresistible, but you really don't gotta stake a public claim."

"Ain't got nothing to do with that. Just making sure that when everyone starts throwing roses, your skin's gonna be tough enough not to get punctured by all those thorns," Puck said lightly, deliberately poking her arm, then her waist, again. "Seems like you're good so far. Shoulda known, what with your hands so used to your cat claws coming out all the time and all."

"Stop it!" Santana griped, slapping at his hand and giving a faint growling noise in her throat that did somewhat remind him of an irritated cat. But she was trying to suppress a grin, and her dark eyes were glinting with amusement that told Puck she really didn't mind at all. She was taking this playfully, and this was exactly the reason he was annoying her in the first place. A playful, irritated Santana was focused on him and his actions, rather than where she was or what she was about to do.

It was the first time either one of them had been in a bar since they had been discharged from the hospital, nearly seven months ago. Any earlier than now, Santana, and probably Puck himself, if he were honest, wouldn't have been able to tolerate it. The noise level and the darkness, the number of strangers, most drunk and not exactly subtle about their intentions towards attractive women, were all huge triggers for them both, enough to drive Santana into a fear driven state of panic and Puck into a blind rage. They couldn't have focused on music or fun or friends, and drinking would have only made matters worse. It was simply impossible for them to go out to a bar for any reason without the night ending badly, and neither had ever tried to kid themselves otherwise and attempted it.

But things had been graduallly becoming different in the past couple of months, changing slowly but surely. Since Santana had begun to see her therapist twice a week and Puck too had started to go on a rate of once a week, she had been encouraging them both to put themselves slowly but steadily in uncomfortable circumstances, pushing themselves to the edge of their comfort levels. She gave them homework assignments after every session to talk to a stranger in a familiar, comfortable public setting, to talk to each other for five or ten minutes about a subject that they found difficult to discuss with words, to observe something or someone that made them feel unsafe for a limited amount of time, rationalizing with themselves throughout it all that they were in fact in control.

Each time her homework for them got a little bit harder. For example, asking Puck to try to comfort Santana with only words and reminders, rather than any physical touch, after her next nightmare, had brought about a storm of protest from him even before he attempted it. No matter how often she tried to explain to him that Santana needed to learn to self-soothe cognitively, all on her own, without him trying to take away her pain or do away with her learning process by rushing in to comfort with touch, he could not accept this. To Puck, it was obvious; if Santana hurt, she needed help, period, and if he was there, he was going to help her.

But slowly, Santana was beginning to rebuff his efforts, to try to do things more often on her own or with minimal support, even when he could tell just looking at her how badly she wanted him to help, to make things easier for her in the moment. She was trying so hard to do better, to become more independent and stand on her own feet, or at least with minimal leaning on someone's arm, and it made things in the apartment a little better for them both. Certainly Kurt and Rachel had noticed the difference and were quick to compliment her and express their pride in her for trying so hard.

Puck was proud of her too. So fiercely proud of her, for already coming so hard and fighting so hard to get closer to where she had once been. Whereas he still took considerable time to even get used to the ideas of changing his thoughts or his habits, and often bucked and resisted until their therapist had explained many times over how it would benefit him, Santana just jumped in and tried, the best that she could, even if it took her many times before she would succeed. She had so much more courage than even she seemed to know, and it sometimes amazed him.

But although he hated to admit it, it made things difficult for him too. Because Puck was used to being Santana's shield, her guard, her protector. And if she started to push him away when he tried to be those things for her…if she decided she didn't need him anymore at all…where did that leave him? Who was he to her then, when she didn't need him? Would she still want him? Who was he to himself?

Puck didn't know; he was still in the process of figuring this out. But until then, if he could not be Santana's shield, he was more than happy to be her support, no matter how difficult it was to make that adjustment.

Coming to the bar had been the latest homework assignment from their therapist. She had specified that they shouldn't drink any alcohol; it would not count, supposedly, if they relied on liquid courage to take over their real nerve. All she had wanted them to do, according to the assignment, was go to a bar on karaoke night, and have Puck watch Santana while she sang.

It sounded simple enough. But for Santana, it would be huge. Deliberately going into an atmosphere that made her uncomfortable, deliberately asking for attention to be focused on her, for everyone there to look at her, to have their thoughts fixated on her, would be one of the biggest steps forward that she had taken so far. And as a bonus, it would get her back into a performance, however small scale, making her start to work again towards making her voice heard.

It wasn't that Santana didn't sing anymore, though she hadn't for some time. Just recently Puck had heard her starting to sing around the apartment again, in the shower or under her breath while going about her day, sometimes if she overheard Rachel or Kurt's radios or musicals playing. Every time he heard her, he couldn't help but grin, because he had thought at one point that her voice would never be heard in that capacity again. But she sang for herself, not for others, and she certainly didn't perform.

Sneaking a look at her now, Puck asked her again, a little more seriously this time as they waited for the chubby, frizzy-haired guy slaughtering Enrique Iglesias's "Hero" to finish up.

"You gonna really do this, 'Tana?"

Santana didn't answer him verbally. Instead, she squared her shoulders, taking a deep breath in, and released it out slowly, her eyes fixed on the stage. And when the guy finished, taking an awkward bow, she grabbed Puck's hand, squeezed it hard, and then slowly walked forward to the stage.

Puck wasn't sure for the first few moments that she would sing at all. She had a look on her face like she was frozen, a deer under the spotlights, ready to bolt. But when the first notes of the karaoke track began to play, he watched her shoulders roll back, a familiar look ripple over her features, and she belted out the first notes as though she had never stopped singing for a day of her life.

"Been a long time since you came around, been a long time but I'm back in town, this time I'm not leaving without you…"

Her voice was bold, husky, and confident, exactly as it once been. And maybe she swallowed nervously a few times in between the lyrics, and maybe Puck noticed her nervously tapping her fingers against the mic even as she moved her body to the beat, keeping time. But more than this he heard her, the genuine passion in her voice, and he saw how her eyes never left his. The song, he had a feeling, was for him as much as for her, and when Santana left the stage, her face flushed against the applause and calls directed towards her, she came straight to him, her lips meeting his intently before she buried her face in his neck. Puck held her, feeling her heart beating wildly against his, and the words he whispered in her ear were no different than those he felt in his heart.

"I'm so proud of you."


	18. Surprise

Puck knew it must be morning, maybe even late afternoon, because he could hear someone's feet padding back and forth over the floor outside his and Santana's curtained off area of the loft. Normally he'd be able to immediately identify the culprit of the noise by the pace and weight of their stride- Rachel walked rapidly, with close together steps, while Kurt tended to clomp as though he weighed twice his actual amount, while Santana had both the quick steps and the deceptively heavy sound to her footsteps. But this morning, or possibly afternoon or even early evening, Puck was so tired his brain barely registered any nearby noises, let alone set to work giving them an identity.

He could be sure, at any rate, that it wasn't Santana walking around at what he still considered to be a completely unacceptable time to awaken. Santana was still curled up in bed behind him, her face buried in between his shoulder blades, her breathing deep, even, and muffled against his shirt, her breath seeping hotly through the thin material to heat his skin. He could feel her hair tickling both his arms, her legs and lower body pressing closely up against his ass and thighs, and her arm was wound loosely around his stomach, her hand spread over his lower abdomen, lightly gripping his shirt. If he were able to think more clearly then, Puck would have registered that it was a bit unusual for Santana to hold or spoon him, rather than the other way around, but all he could focus on with any degree of coherency then was how nice it felt for her to be so close to him, how even in his sleepy exhaustion, the warmth of her skin, the shape of her pressed so close to it was definitely beginning to register with other parts of his anatomy as well.

He ignored it, his own breathing almost in rhythm with hers as he lay on his side, one hand twined in the hand of Santana's not fisting his shirt. Eyes still closed, he rested in the moment, remembering without any intended effort on his part the events of the night before.

It had been his birthday, which he had actually forgotten for the majority of the day. Birthdays had never been a big thing to Puck once he was eleven or twelve. His mother had tried her best when he was younger, and as he grew older and his cynicism increased and his expectations and hopes dwindled in many aspects of his life, he had stopped bothering to mention to anyone that it was his birthday, let alone ask them to celebrate it with him. Sure, sometimes Finn or other guys would remember and go out with him on that particular night, but generally, it was nothing anyone made a big deal over, so neither did he.

By the time Puck did remember his own twentieth birthday, the day was half over and no one else seemed to have. He had shrugged it off, figuring no one would, and gone about his day, until he received a phone call from a very odd-sounding Kurt.

"Santana's at this bar, she called me and sounds freaked out. I think someone needs to go get her. I can't get off work, can you go?"

Puck hadn't given it a second thought. The story had more holes in it than his oldest boxers, but he hadn't worried about how weird it sounded. If Santana needed him, he was going, but he did wonder what the hell was going on the entire way he got himself there, with the directions Kurt gave him.

Why hadn't Santana called him, if she needed him, instead of Kurt? Why had she gone to a bar, by herself, at night time, no less? Was she drinking? She never drank, not anymore, not since the abduction…what had happened, was she okay?

Puck had stressed himself to the point of being in a purely adrenalized state by the time he arrived at the place Kurt had directed him to. He was even more worried because he had called Santana's number several more times without receiving a reply from her. What the hell could she be doing, why wasn't she answering the phone?

He had burst through the entrance, head swiveling back and forth as he scanned the bar for any signs of her. But he saw nothing, no one that even resembled her. That is, until he started to move towards what looked like a room intended for a private party, which appeared to him to be empty- until several people burst out from under its table.

"SURPRISE!"

Six rambling paragraphs of explanation, constantly interrupting each other, from Kurt and Rachel had finally got Puck the approximation of understanding of what had just happened. It was a surprise party; Sam, Mercedes, Artie, Quinn, Kurt, and Brittany had all showed up to be part of it, and everyone had pitched in to rent a private room. Everyone's fake IDs had been accepted without question, or perhaps with a considerable bribe. There would be music and drinks, food and karaoke, if they wanted, all to themselves.

Puck had looked around then for Santana in the midst of the noise and excitement and hugs, concerned as to how she was going to be able to get through this. It was true that she was doing much better; her therapy sessions had been downgraded from twice a week to only once, and she was doing well with working through the triggers for her anxiety and fear rather than simply attempting to avoid them, with many fewer panic attacks and breakdowns than she had had before. She was, in fact, back in school now, taking a small classload as she tried to take the time to figure out again just what it was she really wanted to do with her life. She had a part time job in the cafeteria at her school, and she had been pestering Puck to go back to school too- something he was privately actually considering. He was proud of her, so damn proud of her for how far she had come.

But for her to go to a bar, with all these people, even in a private room…could she really get through the night like that?

But Santana had come up behind him, slipping her arms around him as her lips pressed against his neck, and sang "Happy birthday, Mr. Puckerman," with a self-satisfied snicker in his ear, seeming quite pleased with herself rather than nervous at all. And when Puck turned to take her into his arms, kissing her lips, and whispered to her, asking her if she'd be okay, she had looked back at him with an almost beaming smile, nodding proudly.

"Who do you think pulled this all together?"

They had spent the night with their friends, dancing and drinking and laughing together, playing ridiculous games that Rachel and Kurt tried to organize and actually getting competitive about who won out for each round. Puck had danced with all his girls, but especially Santana, and at the end of the night, more than a little intoxicated, she had sat on his lap in front of everyone, announcing to them all at large, "You are ALL my very favorite people…my VERY FAVORITE!" just before turning to bite down playfully on his lower lip and laughing so hard she started to cough afterward. As Puck snorted in amusement at her, patting her back, he had nevertheless thought to himself, even as drunk as he was, that the way she was smiling at him, seeing the dimples show up in her cheeks, was the best part of the night of all.

Hours later, his head was pounding vaguely, and he knew if he sat up, his stomach would slosh sickeningly, the effects of his hangover lasting most of the remainder of the day. He knew that Santana would be irritable and cranky or whiny and basically useless with any needed task. But he wouldn't have traded last night, and he wouldn't trade this morning, lying in bed with her as he listened to the sound of her breathing, almost in rhythm with the pulsing of his temples. Eventually he would have to get up, and eventually, Santana would too; but for now, he had these moments with her close to him, unconsciously using him as a comfort to the physical discomfort of her hangover she wasn't even yet conscious she was experiencing, and Puck was in no rush for this moment to come.


	19. Close

Close

Her skin was impossibly soft and smooth, and it seemed to stretch on for miles. Puck paused, looking up into her face to insure that Santana gave her permission, and when she didn't grimace or push his hands away, he eased the rest of her shirt up, slowly lifting it over her head.

She was breathing rapidly, her chest heaving with her quick, slightly uneven pants, but as Puck continued to search her eyes, looking for hesitation or dislike, Santana shook her head at him, then deliberately took hold of his hands and pressed them against her abdomen. She pushes down on them lightly, making him exert pressure before releasing, as though inviting him to glide them upward.

Still watching her face, but clearly receiving her unspoken message, Puck runs his hands up Santana's rib cage, keeping his touch gentle, experimental. One hand cups her breast over her bra, thumbing her nipple slowly over the cup, and when Santana sucks in her breath, but doesn't show a negative response, Puck moves his other hand beneath her back, unhooking her bra.

Santana is not underneath him; it would make him feel too much like he was dominating her, and could possibly trigger her as well. They had discussed this before, and determined that the best, most mutual position would be with them lying on their sides, facing each other, equal partners in every way. There was no physical pressure on either, no possibility of feeling pinned down or trapped; at any point, if it became too much, the other could roll away.

They had tried this once before, almost a month ago. It had not ended well. They had experimented with allowing Santana to be on top, but she had froze up, scrambling off of him and curling into a ball as she struggled to breathe without hyperventilating. Puck himself had been so upset by her response, feeling guilty for his body's response to her even as she became distressed, that he had not even slept in the same bed with her again until she almost demanded he return. But they had had mutual therapy processing how the last effort had failed, as well as individual sessions since, and now, for the first time since, they were trying again…so far, so good.

Puck slowly slid the straps of Santana's bra off her shoulders, easing them down as gently, as though they could somehow hard her with their touch. He leaned in to kiss her collarbone, stroking his fingers over the delicate bones of her shoulders, and then his mouth moved lower, descending towards her breast. He was aware of his own quickening heartbeat, of Santana's against him, but her fingers were touching him too, running over his back and arms, and she released a soft noise that sounded content, as though she were feeling pleasure from his touch.

Emboldened by this, Puck touched her bare breast, rubbing his thumb directly over her nipple, then after another quick glance towards her face, seeing that it was relaxed, open, her eyes shut, he took her nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue over its bud. Santana gasped sharply, but the noise was not pained or protesting. As her heartbeat spiked, her breath hot and fast against his neck, Puck could feel her starting to writhe, her body twisting side to side as her hips bucked closer against him. She rather than he started to fumble for the zippers of their jeans, shimmying out as fast as she could manage and reaching for Puck's as well, before pausing. Now only in underwear, her hand on Puck's zipper, she opened her eyes, meeting his, and there was some hesitation, some lingering nervous anticipation in her gaze that paused Puck too- and a question. She didn't ask, but he knew what she was wondering. Did he want this? Was he ready too?

"We can stop," he breathed, giving a gentle kiss to her throat, one hand shifting to rub a slow circle on her back. "Whenever you want, babe. We can stop."

But Santana shook her head, swallowing heavily, her legs moving to press closer into his. Still looking him in the eye, she breathes, "Do you…?"

Did Puck want to stop? Did Puck think they could do this, go through with this, and come out okay?

Two months ago, he would have been uncertain. Four or five months ago, he would have said with total certainty that there was no way, and a year ago, he wouldn't have been able to consider the thought without flashbacks to their captivity, to their torment, to his part in her prior abuse. But tonight, he looked Santana in the eyes, seeing in their surface not a victim, not a target, not even an old friend, but rather the heart and soul of the strongest, most courageous person he knew. He looked into the eyes of the person he had grown with and grown up with, the person who would for the rest of his life have a connection and understanding with him that no one else could share, the person he loved more than anyone else in his world, and he knew that no matter what happened, they would be okay. They always would be, given time.

So he kissed Santana, gently at first, then more thoroughly, and his kisses expanded out to cover the majority of her skin. And when he slid his pants off, kicking off his boxers as well, and drew her closer against him still, he felt at one with her even before their physical union was complete.

Afterward, they lay together, arms and legs entwined, their hearts beating out of sync, but still somehow soothing in their rapid tattoo against each other's skin. With Santana's face hidden in his neck, his lowered to her hair, her hair messily spread about his skin, Puck kept his arms around her, keeping her close to him, and struggled with his own instinct, to speak aloud to her the few words that were so rarely shared between them. It felt so damn clichéd, and yet what better moment would there be to say the expected words aloud?

He debated, hands splayed against Santana's back, until it was she who broke the silence, saying for him in a nearly slurred murmur what he had held back.

"I sorta love you, Puckerman."

She had used "sort of" as her disclaimer, and she had not lifted her face to watch his reacting expression. But it was enough, more than, and Puck swallowed, tightening his arms even more around her.

He did love her, more than a few words could convey. He loved her for their history and their present, for the future he had more faith now than ever would be in existence. He loved her for her courage and her strength, for her determination and her ferociousness in words, actions, and commitment to change. He loved her for her ability to not entirely overcome her struggles, but to never give in to letting them overcome her, and for the sense of humor that still made her so uniquely Santana Lopez, no matter how inappropriate it might be at times. He loved her for loving him, for forgiving him, for making him start the process of forgiving himself. He loved her for all the ways she had changed and all the ways she had stayed the same, but mostly, he loved her for reasons that went beyond anything he could have given a reason to, simply for being who she was.

He loved her, but the best he could do to say so was to echo her own words.

"Yeah, Lopez. I sorta love you too."

End

Thank you all for your comments, hope you enjoyed.


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